Best Not to Hope for Miracles

He had heard that water
could be changed to wine.
His hands trembled, dropped
a plate, scooped up the pieces
in the dustpan. He could not
scoop up his anxiety. The morning
seemed cheerful enough.
The sun rose at sunrise,
dew shimmered on the grass.
A bluejay squawked at the empty
feeder, a squirrel climbed
an oak tree, children tramped
off to school, minutes fell
from the clock as the second hand
jerked around, curtains stirred
in a light wind— the calendar
said it was summer. Mustn’t forget
to put away the cream and rinse out
the sink. His hands remembered
the clutch of frail fingers,
but eyes helpless before her
mute appeal. The hospital whispered
past on rubber-soled shoes.