The whole town now feverishly sets out to see the full effect of how, in just one hour, an army of homeowners can transform a town. We all quickly side step down the edge of the street to assess how others have fared florally and artistically. Everyone is being very careful not to step on anyone else's petals. For as far as I can see, right up and down our street the 500 year-old houses look happy. On this one day each year they reside along the banks of a river of flowers. The color of it all meanders with the curve of the street, babbling away into the distance.

Large concentric circles, drawn with or without broomstick, dot the stream of flowers. Some villagers have written their initials with spring's proliferating sunny ginestra, then there is the occasional big white cross of small downy petals. In front of the fruit and vegetable shop 'Ave' is spelled in velvety red roses. Luigina, the owner, lost her father last week.

Antonio, the local palace owner, has the longest street frontage. There he is standing proudly in front of his Beverly Hills-size palace doors. He is looking unusually well-rested, just like my husband. He hugs two of his six daughters and poses proudly in front of his 120 foot flower-fest. I am sure his family and his staff feel just as frazzled as me.

I wander past the palace down Via Nazionale towards the bar. The people here have also cheated but the effect is pretty impressive. They have dyed fine wood shavings all sorts of bright colors instead of flowers. They have created a very intricate portrait of Our Lady of Lubriano -- the Madonna del Poggio herself. I would like to think this dust is from the workshop of Lubriano's one and only cabinet maker, Guiseppe, who under no circumstances will work with any wood but chestnut.

Mrs Medori whispers to me, "piu bella" (meaning ours are the best). We all nod furiously. The town's monochromatic medieval streets are bursting with color and delicious scents and everyone has a spring in their step.

At 11am, I sprint up to my bedroom and noisily ask my daughter in the next room where the iron is. We have been invited to a First Communion celebration immediately after the procession ends. Still amazed by the speed of it all I peek out of my window to check that I was not dreaming. I am startled to see, silently, the priest standing below me with all the procession formed behind him. The procession is so long that I can't see the end of it. The people are so still they look like an Italian version of the Chinese terracotta army. Everyone is waiting for the band to signal the start of the parade. I feel like a noisy buffoon acting up in the middle of a minute of silence.

Solemnly, a trumpet sounds somewhere behind Father Don Luigi. He steps forward and slowly, like a train leaving the station, the procession glides forward. Right behind the priest, the church icon is held up high by three young ladies. They are followed by an armada of barefoot celebrants. The first few devotees are young girls covered from head to toe in black garments, their faces completely hidden as if in mourning and their black-stockinged feet accentuating the brilliance of the petals underfoot. They are carrying gigantic white altar candles as tall as they are. Maria Rita, our housekeeper, gives me the scoop. She assures me that these young women owe a great debt to the Madonna and are humbling themselves in great thanks for prayers answered. The enormous candles they are carrying are the altar candles for the coming year.

Everyone in the procession looks quite polished. The village garb of butcher's apron, baker's hat, shoemaker's leathers are all put aside for today. Emilio, our Italian teacher, is right behind the priest looking very solemn in shining white robes as he holds a big wooden cross up high. Roberto, our garden contractor, is flanked by two small girls in pink satin robes looking like a couple of Raphael's cherubs (which I am sure they are not). Two marching bands follow the procession. The second of the two bands is a very smart contingent. They all have massive irridescent black feathers fluttering atop their helmets, bobbing to the beat of their step, like an army of rooster tails.

The procession passes on our petals. At first I wince a little as our design is scuffed, but the crushed, scattered flowers waft more perfume into the air. Our floral canvas is losing form and turning into a misty Monet as it is de-constructed before our eyes. In five minutes our design is gone. On looking at the flowers all mixed up I wonder which is better, before or after? The new pot-pourri at my feet is a pure testament to nature's glory. Pearly white, cherry pink, sunshine yellow, burgundy, garnet and coral. The new palette mocks me, to think I could make a better design than spring itself.

Fifteen minutes after the procession has disappeared, husbands (including mine) bring out the just-emptied laundry baskets and old boxes. With great gusto the street is swept clean of any petal. I see the mayor, dressed in his suit for mass, sweeping too.

The sweet sweet blossoms' hour is past. Father Don Luigi is saying mass and the heavens open up with good soaking rain.

Feedback:
"Loved the article. It was beautifully evocative and well written." Elaine Manasse

"I have been to Lubriano many times with the many friends Diana and her husband extend their hospitality to by letting us share the experiences of life in the lovely little town. I have been there in the fall, the summer and even in January when 6" of unexpected snow sent the villagers out into the streets for gleeful snowball fights. But I have never experienced the May event and I was thrilled to read her article. Her writing brought to life an experience I have always been intrigued by." Karen Tobia

"What a wonderful experience and privilege for the writer and her family. Written so beautifully and with so much feeling; thank you for allowing us to share this with her and all the other readers. All the best for many years of fun and flower power,enjoy it." Chris and Sally O'Flaherty