On this day...
Even within the most beautiful landscape, in the trees, under the leaves the insects are eating each other.
--Francis Bacon

I rode my bicycle this morning. I had a beautiful ride alongside the woods and, then, through neighborhoods in which lawnmowers droned their spring bagpipes to wake lazy neighbors. I was rewarded at the end of the bike path with a rest and absolute pure fuel for my soul. The remainder of the day was quiet and filled with reflection.
How, on such a day, could memories arise so cruel that many cannot feel the spring warmth, cannot see the new, seasonal light, cannot soak in the color of the wind? Cruel memories of loss. Cruel memories of strife. Cruel memories of war.
Something to be remembered from a song in popular during the Second World War:
Sweetheart, the night is growing old.So, please, no kisses withheld, no time ever lost, no love untold. Nevermore.
Sweetheart, my love is still untold.
A kiss that is never tasted,
forever and ever is wasted.








