The path lies soft beneath drifting petals,
a quiet river of pale pink and early light.
Cherry branches arch overhead,
their blossoms trembling with the hush of dawn.
A lone monk moves with the morning,
her robe the color of earth just before rain.
Each step leaves no mark,
each breath dissolves into the gentle air.
The rising sun spills gold through the trees,
and the blossoms catch fire in its glow.
For a moment, monk and dawn are one shimmer—
no watcher, no watched,
only the bright unfolding of now.
Petals fall.
Light deepens.
The path continues,
yet nothing needs to be reached.
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