Written by Jerie Jacobs

What to do the morning after a miracle,

marked as I am by the passing of the angel?

Babes and lunatics see the mark.

These luminous rays of hope and healing

shine visibly to the innocent.

The mad and infirm lurch and shuffle toward me,

drawn with hands outstretched

to grasp at wisps of light, tendrils of divine love.

They speak, mumbling through blackened gums,

begging for they know not what.

I turn to them and weep because my newly steady hands

hold no power to make them whole.

And I little comprehend what has passed upon me in the night,

or why.

About the author


Jerie Jacobs

Jerie Sandholtz Jacobs lives in Northern California where she enjoys writing, reading, and figuring out excuses to visit her grandchildren. Her love of cooking is closely related to her even deeper love of eating delicious food.

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