I do not have words to imagine the prayers of the falling.
It feels ironic to light a candle
when fires burn freely and fast;
to kneel as though the earth might otherwise
flee from beneath me.
Breathing has become
an act of defiance. 
Baptism threatens 
to flood the floor with tears.
Where will we look for the words of salvation 
but in the static,
silent space between thunderclap and lightning,
the gap between 
perception and impact,
sound and fury,
fear and revelation?

I do not have words to imagine the thoughts of the falling.
I pray for them anyway: 
swift and surprising currents of grace,
an explosion of peace.