
The Miracle: Lullaby for Lost Children
Melanie Rae Thon
Pink pyrola, trailing daisy—magenta flames of shooting stars,
brilliant gold of glacier lilies.
Hush now, beloved.
The hummingbird comes to sip from foxglove and Sweet William,
drinks from the hollyhock, opens the snapdragon.
Why are you afraid?
The smallest poppies bloom rose and scarlet, surrendering
themselves to light, waving
illuminated hearts
in a bed of violet iris.
All life is love.
Bluebirds sing before dawn, as if stars
shimmer in their throats, and day
rises from them.
What more evidence do you need?
Snow melts into dark earth and here in damp woods white trillium blossoms.
River, cloud, birch, aspen—do you love only what returns love,
or have you learned to love stone and silence?
The thrush holds one radiant note so sweet and clear it seems the bird will shatter—
and then it does shatter: into a heart-sparking
ripple of song that echoes tree to tree and leaves the earth trembling.