Patience and Compassion

At dawn, a young monk

sweeps fallen petals from the stone path.

Each stroke of the broom

leaves less on the ground—

and less in his mind.

He pauses,

watching mist lift from the valley.

Nothing hurries the sun,

yet morning arrives.

A bird calls.

Another answers.

Neither argues the sound.

He remembers:

To take only the step before him—

this is simplicity.

The path does not ask for more.

To wait as mountains wait—

through storm, through silence—

this is patience.

Even the river does not resist the bend.

To hold his own restless heart

as gently as a fallen leaf—

this is compassion.

No wind is turned away.

The broom rests.

The petals remain.

The world, unfinished, is complete.

He bows
not to perfection,
but to what is—
and in that quiet bow,
nothing is missing.

 Content now,

he sits and contemplates...