In the woods, the earth is once again dark.
Everything shines. Shining and dark. Despair is like that.
We speak of it rarely.
Each of us knows it, or will, mourning in silence.
Grief is a stone.
Yet there is a kind of pleasure to know we will never love less, never be consoled, as Donald Barthes wrote, that we will remember more and more.
"Death is the mother of beauty."
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
