A perfect spring day: sunshine, warmth, trees about to burst into bloom.
Sure knowledge haunts the edges of each thought:
three sets of parents,
three widening circles of friends,
mourn the death of a child, from Monday's bombing.
Prayers encompass them, but cannot measure grief.
Loss, birth. Pointless violence, promise of spring.
"There is a feeling that wants to be expressed," my 95-year-old student said yesterday. "If I had another 30 years, I might be able to express it."