Within the realm of circumstance
You are a slave
To occurrences, a victim
Of probability,
A naysayer to God,
You speak prayers to chance,

Live thanklessly, not counting
The billions
Of tiny blessings, ignorant
To the little miracles,

Raindrops on pavement,
The soundtrack
In your all-seeing eyes, accidental,
A statistic, a probability,

As a blind man getting soaked,
Wanders home,
Happy for the shower,
Anticipating dry clothes,
Smells smoke,
And he knows,
A hundred percent certain,

Eight blocks before he arrives
At the front door
Blocked off by red trucks and news reporters,
That the fire is his own,

And he is thankful
For the symphony,
Grateful for his bones,
Glad this occured (it's all in the plan,
NOTHING happens at random)
And he never stops,
Smiling
Because he knows he's not alone