It was the most glorious of Sundays, perfectly fitting for the first Sunday after the equinox and the full moon. In the fields, forests, and hills the plum blossoms heralded the promise of resurrected life. Wayward clouds descended to the earth singing voicelessly in a color encompassing all colors. If you listened carefully, you could hear their white whispers waft through the still air, manifesting a new symbol the first rough winds will surely dispel.
Yet, even the roughest of winds cannot shake the promise the blossoms have revealed, not even after their petals are scattered mercilessly across the land – the confetti remnants of a feast few noticed, let alone celebrated.