In the greyest predawn light that marks the coming death of night
All about wet leaves are scattered–summer's clothes all brown and tattered.
Breezes damp and cold are sighing, and carry scents of death and dying.
Grasses once so green and lush are choked with soil that's turned to mush.

Yet with death so large and looming, I note a stand of flowers blooming–
Pushing upward toward the sun, exuberantly they've begun
Growing, for they are forgiving winter by their very living.
Such is the stubborn way of life, to push on in the darkest strife.

And as I stand here in the muck, by this simple thought I'm struck:
On joy and woe alike we sup–we're just not made for giving up.
Reminded of my solemn duty–to see the good, to find the beauty,
I smile, despite the cold wind's stinging, for I can hear a songbird singing.

Yeah I know, it's rough and clunky, but I was pretty blue yesterday about the political situation in this country, and that coupled with all the rain we're getting put me in a sour mood.

Gotta remember to hold on to what's good in life when bad times come, because, like winter, bad times must pass.  Despair is therefore unnatural in a way, which is not to say one shouldn't feel sorrow, but don't let that sorrow turn into hopelessness.

Now that I've bored you with my greeting-card philosophy, I leave you with the completely unrelated but bizarre Balinese Kissing Festival.

Peace.