I wake up each morning looking for something to love, something that would easily fit into a tender love song to the gods. I open the window. There is often a bird perched on a branch, a raindrop sparkling from a leaf, frost glistening on silent grass. I look at the garland of moments that have embellished my days, placemats embroidered next to my fragrant mother, green silk for holiday pine needles, yellow, black, brown for the flicker of a candle flame. I look at the future with its fragile laughter so often discouraged by sharp mandates that advocate the stern nobility of sadness. I have inherited so many ruins, castles, friendships, stern religions, empires, and democracies. And still, I want to get up and play the tender melody of a future worth living.