"...sometimes in the morning i’ll ache 
in unexpected places" ~ D. Bonta

A wind blew through a valley; a dam 
nearly overflowed. Buds bloomed into 
a riot of flowers. Colors I couldn't have 
named filled beautiful botany books. 
Despite their inconsistensies, myths 
circulated about the origin of these 
beauties. Every town had its own version. 
Floats bedecked with garlands circled 
the streets to signal spring. Girls dressed 
as goddesses sat on peacock chairs. Hair 
pulled back, their hands conducted invisible
symphonies. I wasn't there but I could hear 
everything. Jostling  crowds, children excited 
for rice cakes and roasted corn. Kettledrums 
marked time. Long, broad leaves covered 
tables groaning with food. Musicians, too, 
were saved both space and dessert. No one 
went away empty-handed. Only the dead 
had no need for surplus—Per custom, though, 
even they were offered food and drink. Quick-
silver light reminds me of places and times
I never was. Ringing bells also have that 
effect. Saints' plaster faces. Traceries
of graphite. Underneath yellowed rolls of
parchment, sometimes I think I glimpse
older maps. Vellum and other skins. X-rays
have found portraits overlaid by other
scenes. You could imagine voices 
calling to you from some ether. Zones
in which some version of you is trying,
perhaps, to send telepathic signals. 

*Anemoia - from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

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