Under the Rising Sun

The monk sits beneath a blooming tree,

yet his mind wanders

through seasons that have not come.

Petals fall here—

but he gathers them

in a place that does not exist.

A crow calls once

into the empty valley—

the echo is carried

to a distant yesterday.

He chases tomorrow

up the snow-covered mountain,

never noticing

the moon already at his back.

Breath enters, leaves—

unnoticed.

The wind moves through branches—

unheard.

At last,

tired of traveling nowhere,

he rests.

And in that stillness,

the elsewhere dissolves—

like frost

under the rising sun.