Miracles That Keep Me Going
For Judy
It’s her sleek slacks on Mondays,
the way she waltzes into our porch-room,
even when in a wheelchair.
On Tuesdays it’s her black and white
blouse that has always reminded me
of the strength of an orthodox
prayer shawl painted by Chagall.
How much I enjoy the careful way
she cuts into her eggs on Wednesdays—
how she portions a bit of yoke atop
a slice of bagel and eases it into
the mouth I’ve so often kissed.
On Thursdays it’s her “Raindrops are
Falling On My Head” T-Shirt that causes
the corners of my mouth to rise.
Fridays bring blousy colors of blacks, blues,
orange, and turquois with a splotchy scarf
to match that makes me think I’m
living with a Matisse painting.
It’s her earrings that sparkle on Saturdays—
how they bounce and jangle against her
comely earlobes while she recites
a poem she’s just written.
Then there are Sundays, our Sundays, where
her face, doe eyes, aquiline nose, and olive
skin turn our house into a temple of
her benevolent presence, a place
where the sacred blooms.