Between miracle and doubt,
between the words of faith healers
and the stoicism of rationalists
there’s a sweet spot—
called hope.

Behold
the stars in the sky
that never stop shining
even when obscured by cloud or smog—
or light.

Behold the seeds
that spread their wings,
that travel on my boot,
that hibernate for years
until the rain and warmth of sun
awaken them.

Between a rock and a hard place,
cactus bears fruit,
hummingbirds take flight,
and the bee ensconces itself
on the shoulder of her lover,
the flower.

Hoofprints of mule deer
crisscross narrow canyon corridors
where rain only accentuates
the cliffrose’s musk.
And though I’ve witnessed
my share of marvels,
still I crave more.