Miracles
A Poem by Elle Rosamilia
I collect sunlight in preparation
for the approaching dark, store it in jars as if
I will not have enough to make bread
for any prophet who asks.
It keeps spilling over anyway––
over hills and valleys, in between tree trunks,
against my closet door beside my open window.
I turn my face towards it like a plant.
It warms me, all my tight and tired muscles,
starts at the bottom of my feet and slowly
fills me up, every cold and hollow bone.
I thought the light would be scarce here,
something to store up and cling to
when the long dark comes.
Silly, foolish me. I fear the prophets,
wait in trepidation for a knock at the door.
I doubt my cups can be refilled.
Instead, you raise the dead.
Elle Rosamilia grew up in the woodlands of upstate New York and moved to Mississippi for
college, where she studied creative writing, teaching English as a second language, and
intercultural studies. Since graduating, she has lived in multiple countries and is currently back
in the States as she figures out her next steps. No matter where she goes in life, she can always
be found pressing wildflowers, taking too many pictures of sunlight, and making art out of
anything she can find.
