The path glows faintly with fallen petals,
a soft pink river winding through the hush of dawn.
A young monk walks slowly,
hands folded within his sleeves,
breath clouding the cool air.
Above him, cherry blossoms shimmer—
fragile lanterns catching the newborn light.
Each petal drifts like a thought unspoken,
and he wonders if the sky, too, is thinking.
Before him, the sun rises—
not suddenly, but as a deep, golden blooming.
It spills warmth across the world,
filling even the shadows with tenderness.
He stops, unsure if what he sees
belongs to his eyes or his heart.
The moment feels too vast to hold,
too simple to explain.
And so he bows—
not in understanding,
but in quiet acceptance
that some things are meant only to be felt.
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