When flowers fall in May, feeling seeps over old hills and pounding coast, through wooden floors and the dewy eyes of youth. They say it has always been this way. Most months the world stands moth still, which is to say the people’s hearts stand still as the world rushes a froth around them. But in May, awoken and swollen, their hearts blink. Perhaps not so much in the eldest, having been blessed one too many blessings. They know this feeling, but it is faint and faded, residing, burrowed, in feather-edged memories. But they remember, and they smile cracked teeth upon the youth, knowing with kindest wishes what is now so new and so so warm in those first touched by flowers.
They tell of fortune, carried by beating wings. It comes this once. Melodious to tongues and sweet to ears. For destiny, rare and seasonal, is a great delicacy. They are not burdened by destiny. Rather, it is a refreshing release of cunning works and control forgiven; the un-moored plans of yesterday become a joyous dance of waves-turned-pathos savored by the still-hearted. Fortune is a gift deserved, worthy of pride, for it is their’s alone, and only by giving what is freely their’s does the gift become their own. It is special; and beating wings and flowers and rains remain only a reflection of a bountiful, beautiful loss.
It is in May when eyes awake and hearts beat, when all have found again each-other in itself.