So rain came-- soft, slow, spring rain of the sort that lures me into nostalgia which then devours hours as though they were minutes. I begin by wondering where one thing or another from the past has gone, and emerge from this indulgent reverie wondering where the night has gone. I sent messages to people I haven't heard from in decades, about things I'd nearly forgotten until the sound of rain dissolved some blockage in my memory and they washed up into consciousness. I used to get fits of nostalgia most frequently in autumn, but in recent years early spring has become more apt to induce them. Maybe the subtle scents of growing things suggests to my subconscious those times when almost all I knew was new and growing and I had little past. Or maybe, now that my past is much larger, it is turning to mental mulch and trying to grow something new in the appropriate season. These are peculiar flowers, though, that blossom in long-vanished fields and have the shapes of faces never to be seen again. I pluck them and arrange them and know that they will soon turn to dust as they have done before. Of dust itself, there's never an end.