After final thunderclap,
when lightning had made its mark
and fades from periwinkle sky,

Before dawn on Sunday,
when the body lies bruised, mangled,
wrapped in white linen and tears,

As faith ebbs and the blood drains
into a torrent of loss and disillusion,
I envision us, together, on the shore:

We eat breakfast, the lot of us
amazed by your presence, that light
of eternal hope alive in your eyes.

On the fulcrum of the see-saw
of what I see and what I saw comes
a moment of suspension

When all one can do is wait,
balanced on a precipice, unsure of
which way things might go.

Time only seems to stand still
living in the interim, waiting for a shift
and for your rise or fall.

All that was and will be
is now possible with surrender,
wild and weightless wonder.