Ordinary Resurrections

Every morning the toilet flushes
and I am not grateful.

Every morning the kettle heats itself
and I pour my coffee
and do not notice.

The car starts. It almost always does.
The internet carries all of human knowledge
through the walls of my ordinary house
where I live my ordinary life
and wait for the miracle
that looks different from this.

This morning a hawk crossed the reservoir.
And the trees were singing
the song they have been singing since before there was anyone to hear it
and the ocean was doing what the ocean does
which is everything
over and over.

A baby nursed somewhere.
Her eyes fixed on the infinite
the way eyes do before they learn to look away.

I have been looking away.

My miracles
are not the burning bush
the parted sea
the stone rolled back.

They are my children saying good morning
the flush
the heat
the engine turning over in the cold.

They are happening all the time in my life.
The one I keep waiting to trade for a better one.