Miracles Do Happen

Miracles do happen, or so I've been told. They do, I know they do. Whether or not I can actually see any sort of miracle remains foggy. Sometimes, I miss everything. Life becomes like one giant brushstroke in the night. A fast, smooth stroke wiped across everything. The pigment absorbs color, the night changes. And just like that, a miracle has happened, but I've missed it. Color falls into the seam. A picture emerges, although not always clear. The rhythm of the brush twists and turns. Miracles continue to happen. We are forced to move forward. We inhale and exhale. Our breathing rises and falls. We are unable to stop. A great brushstroke continues through the night, while miracles do happen.