Thundering news hits me like a snowball
striking my face and shattering
Covering me in a fine powdery and mist
and mixing in with my tears
And I'm fifty-seven but I could be seven years old,
Cause I will never be able
to comprehend the expansiveness
of what I've just learned, that
You, have disappeared
You have been released
You are flecks of light
You are mist
Somewhere, spinning round the sun