The Miracle, and Other Poems

These are poems written when the world still moved slowly enough to notice the slope of light across a table, the last week of summer, the particular silence of someone you love. Virna Sheard captures the small holy things: a blind man's desperate reaching toward light, a lullaby at dusk, the final roses before frost. Her voice is tender but never sentimental, precise without being cold. She writes about what it means to live inside time, to feel seasons change as emotional weather, to love someone so much their absence becomes a room you walk through daily. The title poem asks what miracle could possibly matter except the ordinary grace of being alive. This is not poetry that shouts. It whispers, and what it whispers matters.