Sometimes there are mountains of it,
valleys and fields and rivers of despair.
And when you think of every face,
you have not seen
but for the pixilated images on a computer screen
and every hallway or classroom
that lies empty
and the concrete getting lonely
on all the abandoned streets,
there are oceans of despair.
Each with its own tide,
rising and swelling
and threatening to drown the world,
and you can't possibly imagine
what happens next.
But other times,
when you realize that the robins,
have still come back for spring,
and the crocuses are still blooming
and the sky is still as blue as ever,
despair can be reduced
to a single small pebble.
And it is your obligation
to carry that pebble for a while,
everyone must at some point or another.
But soon that pebble will grow warm,
and smooth in the palm of your hand.
It will start to wear away,
and shrink smaller and smaller
until little grains of sand start to slip
through your closed fist,
and its ashes are blown away,
on a spring breeze.