Pitch-black the night:
God is awake yet,
sitting on the hospital roof,
feet swaying, dangling from the ledge.

Bitter cold is the wind,
howling like a broken heart,
dancing in the doorway
around the newly-christened widow.

Hard are the hearts
of the bedside mourners;
the brother, the sisters, the parents
whose eyes still trace the floor.

And pitch-black remains the night,
God jubilantly whirling, barefoot on the roof,
little more than a mere child
with another new friend to amuse.