I want to believe in miracles so
I look at the stems of my orchid
in early morning light, my eyes
not yet adjusted to day, still
bedded and closed. I mean

the pedicels from which each bloom
grows, off the main inflorescence.
And I name the descending colors
of these thin thoughts in my
full and earnest mouth:

forest green
olive green
spring green
yellow green
& cream

It pays to be specific. To record the
stillness. Like a prayer on a roasary.
Each color a bead announcing
the mystery of what pushes forth
despite our best attempts at despair.