The forecast didn’t call for principalities and powers.
In toppling heaps of alabaster balanced overhead
They hung, silently swelling, for apprehensive hours,
Filled full with holy water and rejuvenating dread.
Somebody called down judgment on the living and the dead
In faceless white serenity, the lurid hues washed out
Below, ice-prism halos above each thunderhead.
Let us set up a candlemas for when the power goes out. [Read more…]