It's Still Life

That Morning in Norcia

After the shaking and the rubble,
the air fell still. It was hell.
Hands busy, panicked, curled
around stones and bricks. Every
passing minute echoing disaster,
and every breath a silvery dust.
A man tripped, dropped to his knees —
from exhaustion or maybe sorrow,
maybe there’s no difference anymore.
Is there a Richter scale for tears?
For a moment I mistook the soft
weeping of women as song, and
then a monk ran from the basilica
dressed in velvet dust, an oil
lamp in his hand. The only light
he’d likely offer anyone today.

Sunday Whirl wordle words: still busy curl silvery bowl class echoing drop jealous velvet oil light