On that meadow
Far above the clouds
I witnessed the mountains and the blue flowers.
The sound of the wind in my ears, the softness of the dew on my skin,
I blinked, to see more.
I twirled, I wept,
I knew I would leave, and the memory* would be lost. The experience would dim.
I wanted the scene forever before my eyes. the flowers, and the white spring mists.
Memory* is flawed even at the moment of presence.
The meaning of the scene (the beholder’s psyche) influences the memory* of it.