They go about
Ravaged by the blow.
In small circles they gather,
As if huddling under thunderheads.
The Son is not out this day.
“Gone” they say
Does not happen all at once.
Tendrils ripple the heavens.
Dark corners exposed.
The quick full face fully lit if only for a moment – then gone.
With shock they clutched to one another still unable to really breathe.
At heart and in hand it was the extended pressure of suppressed hope bourne out of a cradle of grief.
A hand wrapped tighter around the arm of her fellow beloved,
“Is it true?” They whisper in small circles.
There in the chill behind closed doors.
There in humble bread broken.
There in the grilled white catch.
” We heard…”
Full white light.
Only later, would we hear the cataclysm of it glorious strike.
“Quite a storm!”
“Yes,” we say with a gentle knowing smile,
“Quite a storm.”