The day is still there.
Underneath and outside
all the chaos that fills us up and drowns us, there is still the song of waking
birds, the sunlight touching on the clouds like a gentle tap on the shoulder.
You are still free to walk either amidst the silencing morning fog or under a
painfully blue sky that shows between the budding trees. You are still free to
leave your card table desk and sit out back on a balmy afternoon where nothing
will touch you.
The forsythia and
dandelions still appear, bringing a springtime that, even in all this, insists
on keeping a schedule. There will be flowers to plant that will not know the
chaos into which they will bloom.
The world is still
there. Even in the ugliness and panic and stupidity and death, its beauty
endures.
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