As surely as spring puddles breed
mosquitoes, tragedies spawn white
heads bobbing over scriptures.
They gesture, nod, recoil from some
conclusion, sit back with tented fingers
signaling their contemplation.
It cannot be there is no Plan
under which catastrophe can lurk
undetected by the faithful
until it bursts upon the world
in all its mystery. So the pious
gather to pry open the mind of God.
Is it vengeance, an overflow of righteous
indignation? Is it love in a form
too ghastly to consider?
Only one option will be allowed:
that Purpose is at work in this affair,
that we must find it and be content.