What if nothing is a miracle?

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The question occurs to me as I stand with you on the edge of the meadow. I repeat the question in my head until the nothing becomes the thing that is a miracle. I grow giddy. If nothing is a miracle, then what you’ve promised me is miraculous. In the photo you are positioned in front of a wall on which wings are painted. The animal fur of you. But on the edge of the meadow, you’re wearing a red sweater. This will not be the day you tell me you love me, though you’ve said it before, so I imagine it’s implied. Did I ever tell you about the boy in college who wrote sound poems and held a huge leaf in front of his face? We called them language poems back then. There were also narrative poems which this is. I wrote one about the time my mother ripped off her nightgown and threw a grandfather clock down the stairs. The college lit mag published it. The font—maybe 9 point—embarrasses me now, as I was the editor. Clearly a lit mag for the young. Why had I wanted the words to be so small? I feel small today, not even a word in the margin, just a symbol, the way we who make marginalia have our own shorthand, how no one will ever know what was meant by this particular swirl, the one that looks like the clouds which have gathered above the meadow where soon, it seems, it will snow.