You have to know what they look like first:
houses spared a tornado,
trees listening to the prayer of finches,
the deaf beggar clapping for the opera of snow.

Then you wait for it in your most elegant dress and shoes,
sitting in the most beautiful chair you own,
the one with the flowers,
in order that you may greet the miracle
like a bride.

Of course, you’ll begin to wonder what the miracle will be–
will those who have died send their regards,
for example,
through a fallen bird feather,
will your best friend’s cancer go away,
will the homeless dine with fine china and gold spoons?

And when it will come– will it be
in the morning when boats row cautiously
toward shore, the afternoon
when food trucks appear in the tent cities of the homeless
or at night when stars gallop in the manes of horses?

Of course, you’ve already prepared for it—
letting out the red carpet
cleaning all the windows,
tying balloons to your mailbox in the front yard,
and cutting the thorn bushes
so it doesn’t get hurt on the way to your front door.

But it will probably come when you are taking a nap
perhaps when you are awakened softly
by the wing of a gold bird
and, opening your eyes, you see
gold coins falling into the hands of poor children
manna blossoming like sails, like love, like light.

– Eva Skrande

Author’s Note: I remember learning in school that the manna which came down in the desert tasted as whatever people wanted their food to be. The miracle of manna strikes me as a metaphor for poetry, for I consider poems and art miracles of their own. The transformation and preparations that occur in “Waiting for the Miracle to Happen” could easily be the preparation and desire for a poem to come to us. I like to take what Bly called “imaginative leaps in poetry” because the miracle happens in the possibilities of language and the imagination.