Slow Surrender

In the hush before morning,

a wind moves without intention.

Bamboo bends—

not to reveal,

not to conceal—

yet the forest opens.

A narrow space appears,

as if the earth has exhaled.

Beyond it,

mist drifts in slow surrender,

lifting its own veil

for no one.

The mountain stands,

unannounced,

unwitnessed,

complete.

No eye receives it,

no mind names it,

no story is made.

Still, the bamboo sways,

still, the mist parts,

still, the mountain rises.

Not waiting,

not offering—

simply thus.

A moment passes

that no one keeps.

And yet,

nothing is lost.