Everything is exploding into the warmth

of the newly found air.

I pick flowers,

and tuck them behind my ears

and place them in little vases all about the house.

And for some reason I cannot begin to describe the loveliness

of the teeny-tiny shining cherry blossoms 

and the yellow, canary tulips 

and the polka dots of purple stars shooting up

like candle flames in the feathered grass.

Color, color, color.

Fill me up with color.

I want to be made of these miracles.

I don't know why I have been looking so hard for them for so long

because they are right here,

in the golden clouds of pollen billowing like smoke off of the trees 

when the wind comes.

In the singing of winged thunderbirds and lightning cicadas 

and in the green that is creeping up the mountain

like the smile that I just realized has been growing and growing,

and is shining now as it flits across my face.

Miracles.