The trees are flowering on the hill. They are bearing large solitary blossoms, japonica, as when you came to me mistakenly carrying such flowers having snapped them from the thin branches. The rain had stopped. Sunlight motioned through the leaves. But death also has its flower, it is called contagion, it is red or white, the color of japonica— You stood there, your hands full of flowers. How could I not take them since they were a gift?