On this Mediterranean night with its light breeze <br />scented with the sun-warmed herbs <br />drifting down from cooling, stony hills, <br />a million stars you’ve never seen before <br />shine on a million crickets singing <br />as if from eternity to eternity <br /> <br />and you cannot say, and there’s <br />no need to say, which is which; <br />the trembling of the stars, <br />the susurration of cicadas, <br />join as in endless praise <br />of the imagination of their maker <br />who made imagination too <br /> <br />and though the cicadas, singing, may never know <br />that the stars they sing to <br />are shining from a thousand years ago <br />and though the stars may never know <br />that the cicadas that they shine upon <br />are a thousand years here from their now, <br /> <br />it’s all known, to the mind that made the vines <br />that made the grapes that made the wine <br />singing in my veins tonight <br />like cicadas susurrating in the starlight <br />as you hear them now <br />this night, this night of endless miracle<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0029-this-night-this-night-of-endless-miracle/
