"Miracles" by Walt Whitman:
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love, …
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
The full poem can be found here.
(Image: Aerial Views by Bernhard Lang)
The Dish 