Perhaps this is enough

The mountain dreams in mist,

its ancient shoulders wrapped

in quiet clouds

that ask for nothing.

The forest drinks deeply,

each cedar,

each fern,

each blade of moss

quenched by the night's gentle offering.

No bell announces the dawn.

No footsteps wander the path.

No voices gather

to praise the morning.

Still,

the eastern sky

opens like a silent flower.

Light spills softly

through the pines.

The stream awakens,

though it was never asleep.

A bird offers a single note

to no one in particular.

The wind bows

to every leaf,

and every leaf

bows back.

Not a soul is around.

No witness.

No applause.

Only the mountain,

dreaming.

Only the forest,

breathing.

Only the morning,

arriving exactly

as it always has.

Perhaps this is enough.

The sun has never asked

to be remembered.

The mist has never wondered

where it belongs.

The trees have never searched

for the meaning of their roots.

They simply become

what this moment asks of them.

The mountain releases its dream.

The mist becomes sky.

The forest glistens.

Morning smiles without a face.

And the world,

having no need

to explain itself,

is complete.