The One True Miracle

by Frank Paino

Asked by Napoleon why there was no mention of god in his theories
about the universe, the mathematical physicist, Pierre-Simon Laplace,
replied, “I had no need of that hypothesis.”

Midnight. Mid-winter.
In this frozen northeastern
meadow, switchgrass
and bluestem wax silver
in frostlight.

As a child, I’d lie
here, face turned to the galaxies,
trusting the words I heard
each Sunday—
how, from nothingness, God
called all things
into being.

Now, I believe
Laplace was right.

The stars need
no deity for their kindling,
nor seasons a hand to wheel
their turning.

The sparrows
that sleep in evergreen
branches along the stuttered
tree line, and each that tumbles
from indifferent atmosphere,
are neither numbered
nor counted.

So too, the ice-rimed
carcass of a deer in what remains
of her hard-weather coat,
broken buttresses of rib cradling
a handful of sky—
how gently she returns to earth
the stuff from which she was woven.

The one true miracle is simply
this.

How much sweeter, then,
the lantern moon’s hushed spill
light— all I need to guide me home.

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Frank Paino has had four full-length books published, including, Dark Octaves (2025), winner of the Longleaf Press Book Prize. He has received a Pushcart Prize, The Cleveland Arts Prize in Literature, and an Individual Excellence Award from the Ohio Arts Council. His website is https://www.frankpaino.net.