In the bamboo forest
morning waits behind a veil of mist.
Tall stalks stand patient,
their leaves whispering
to what cannot yet be seen.
Slowly the fog begins to part—
not torn,
not scattered—
just opening,
like an eye remembering light.
A narrow path appears,
then another step of it,
then another,
never the whole at once.
The forest does not promise
what lies ahead.
It simply reveals
what is ready to be walked.
Each breath clears a little more sky.
Each step uncovers a little more day.
Discovery is not far away—
it is this gentle unfolding,
the mist giving way,
the bamboo bowing slightly,
and the quiet invitation
to begin again.
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