The wind comes through the dead leaves
and a human wind leaves the dead bodies.
Are we no more to God than the dead leaves?
Or does God mourn the leaves greatly,
unable to do more than shed the tears of rain?

The sky is a night-color, ink upon a blue wash,
and the golden colors of windows welcome-shine on the street
while people we could have loved die in the rubble,
die all over the world in a fall as heavy as a tree’s whole crop,
and what can I do except to tell numbed ears “I don’t like it.”