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Spring sunlight penetrates where winter’s hidden intrigues entertained by hearth or mere candle flame. Secrets then are no longer secret now. In spring ghosts mostly retreat, but sometimes they dare intrude with friendly nudges or unidentifiable noises or scents.
“Don’t you recall what plans we once spawned here in private?” the spirits say.
“What clandestine arrivals? What furtive departures? What profound events feted? What parties til dawn with excitement heightened by what music or what wine?” Now mostly gone, the sprites are almost forgotten like . . .
. . . strolls for pairs seeking private vantage from a bridge bed long crumbled, even friends who no longer talk as they did, ties ravaged by personal pirates.
I hear you still, my heritage; I consume your memory, like recalling cargoes once carried by these ships. They too are like lovers gone way off course and left high and dry.