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,