I wept last night alone for loves lost, missed chances, hopes unfulfilled and those who I have known who are now dead. For the grey grief of the turning globe.
It is not wrong, I think, to mourn. To deny would be to cut out half the world.
What is sad, I think, is not to move the mind from loss to life.
To miss the thrust of winter into spring.
We are as fragile as the raindrop on the petal. It is our curse to know. And perhaps our consolation.
So when from grey sky and black branches there falls a shower of song we bathe in the bliss that is the blessing of our death.