Always Preparing

At the edge of the garden

a man builds a gate—

measuring, refining, waiting.

“I will walk through

when it is perfect,” he says.

Seasons pass.

The koi grow old in the pond,

circling without rehearsal.

The monk sits beside him,

watching petals fall

into water that does not wait.

The man gathers plans

like dry leaves—

afraid to step forward

until the wind is right.

Winter comes quietly.

Snow covers the unfinished gate.

His breath slows—

still preparing.

The monk closes his eyes.

A petal lands,

lives fully in its falling,

and is gone.

The gate remains unopened.