Without Regret

An empty rowboat

rests upon the waking lake—

no journey remains.

Mist rises slowly,

lifting from the silent water

like forgotten dreams.

The oars lie untouched,

gathering pearls of dew beneath

the pale dawn sky.

Mountains watch quietly

through veils of silver drifting

across their reflections.

No fisherman comes.

No destination calls.

The boat does not wait.

Golden sunlight spills

across the stillness of the lake,

breaking nothing.

A heron glides low,

its shadow passing softly

through cloud and water.

The mist climbs upward,

returning itself to heaven

without regret.

The empty boat knows

what the restless heart forgets:

Stillness also moves.

For a brief moment

lake, mist, sky, and weathered wood

share a single breath.

Then morning arrives.

The boat remains where it is.

The world drifts around it.

 

The Sun Continues

An empty temple window

faces the harsh morning sun—

no monk remains there.

Dust dances in light

where prayers once gathered like mist

among cedar beams.

The mountains beyond

offer no explanations,

only distance.

The sun enters freely,

finding nothing to illuminate,

and nothing to hide.

Spider silk trembles

between weathered wooden frames;

the world passes through.

Yesterday's wisdom

lies scattered among shadows

that cannot remain.

The window does not

cling to darkness or brightness—

both are visitors.

A raven crosses

the burning field of morning

without leaving tracks.

Stone, silence, sunlight—

three names for the same teacher

speaking no words.

By noon even the

dust has surrendered itself

to the empty air.

The temple stands still.

The window stands open.

The sun continues.

 

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.

 

Rhythm of Light

The mountain waits in the quiet dawn,

its shoulders wrapped in mist.

Nothing rushes its patience.

Stone knows the long rhythm of light.

Fog drifts along its ridges,

soft as breath over sleeping earth.

The forest below is hidden,

the sky above only a pale suggestion.

Still the mountain does not strain

to see the morning.

It stands as it always has—

rooted in silence,

content with the unseen.

Slowly the mist begins to loosen,

thin threads of light

finding their way through.

Tree by tree the world returns,

ridge by ridge the day awakens.

But the mountain has not changed.

It was already here,

already whole,

long before the sun

remembered to rise.

 

Light Gathers Slowly

At dawn, a man in a skiff

rests upon water so still

it forgets to ripple.

He is only a silhouette—

a quiet line

between sky and reflection.

No oar breaks the surface.

No word crosses the air.

Light gathers slowly

around his unmoving form.

The horizon opens its pale eye,

and the boat floats

between two mornings—

one above,

one below.

He does not fish for answers.

He does not row toward meaning.

He simply sits

where water and light meet.

In that suspended hush,

man, skiff, and dawn

become a single outline—

dark against brightness,

present without effort,

carried without leaving.

 

Balance Holds

Rocks sit balanced

in the silent stream,

stone resting on stone

without effort.

Water slips past

without comment,

carrying the night

away in small ripples.

Morning fog begins to loosen,

thread by thread,

revealing the shape of a new day

as if it had always been there.

Nothing rushes.

Nothing interferes.

Balance holds,

the stream flows,

and dawn arrives

on its own terms—

quiet, complete,

and enough.

 

The World Returns

The mist lingers at dawn,

slow to release its hold,

as if savoring

one last moment of sleep.

Light slips gently between the folds,

not forcing,

not persuading—

only waiting.

Then the mist begins to part,

thread by thread,

revealing mountain, pine, and sky

as if they were never gone.

The temple emerges quietly,

roof first,

then walls,

then the stillness it has always held.

Nothing announces this unveiling.

Nothing applauds.

The mist simply moves on,

the world simply returns,

and the temple remains—

unchanged, unbothered,

standing where it has always stood,

at ease with being seen

or unseen.

 

No Urgency

 

Dawn stirs behind the peaks,

a faint gold whisper

through thinning mist.

Birdsong trembles into being,

branches shake off sleep,

and the valley remembers itself.

The fog loosens its hold—

first soft strands,

then wide breaths of air

revealing stone, pine, and sky.

On the ridge,

the temple waits without intention,

its silhouette returning

one line at a time.

No urgency,

no claim of importance—

just wood, tile, shadow, light,

participating in the morning

as naturally as moss on rock.

In the grand sweep of stars

and turning galaxies,

it is a speck—

and perfectly so.

For in this vastness,

nothing is small,

nothing is great,

and the dawn unfolds

exactly as it should.

Misty Morning Settles

Misty morning settles in the mountains,

a pale hush smoothing every edge.

Pines fade into the whiteness,

their branches half-remembered,

half-dreamed.

On a ridge sits the silent temple,

roof tiles beaded with cloud,

wood breathing slowly

in the cool damp air.

No bell rings,

no monk chants,

no incense curls upward—

yet nothing is missing.

The temple does not seek visitors,

nor fear abandonment.

Its beams rest easy,

its halls at peace

with the simple fact of being.

Mist thickens,

mountains vanish,

the world unspools into quiet.

Still the temple remains—

content in its solitude,

whole without witness,

a single breath

held gently in the dawn.

 

Drifting Mist

Mist drifts through the valley,

soft as unspoken thought.

The world has not yet chosen its shape—

mountain, tree, or dream.

Above, the temple waits in silence,

rooflines fading into cloud,

its bell mute,

its prayer unuttered.

Light seeps slowly through the fog,

like breath returning to a body.

Nothing stirs, yet all is alive—

a moment between moments,

where the dawn forgets to arrive,

and eternity lingers,

listening.

 

Breath of Dawn

From the dark tunnel, two monks emerge—

their lantern a small sun,

its golden flame swaying gently

in the breath of dawn.

Behind them, stone and shadow fade,

the echo of their steps swallowed

by the quiet they carried through the night.

Before them, mist drifts over the fields,

soft and alive,

the world still half a dream.

The light of morning seeps through it all—

a silver hush becoming gold.

They pause at the threshold of day,

the elder lowering the lantern,

the younger watching as the flame

grows pale in the rising glow.

No words pass between them.

The lantern’s work is done.

The sun has taken its place.

Together, they step forward—

into the light that needs no flame.

 

Vast Simplicity

The path glows faintly with fallen petals,

a soft pink river winding through the hush of dawn.

A young monk walks slowly,

hands folded within his sleeves,

breath clouding the cool air.

Above him, cherry blossoms shimmer—

fragile lanterns catching the newborn light.

Each petal drifts like a thought unspoken,

and he wonders if the sky, too, is thinking.

Before him, the sun rises—

not suddenly, but as a deep, golden blooming.

It spills warmth across the world,

filling even the shadows with tenderness.

He stops, unsure if what he sees

belongs to his eyes or his heart.

The moment feels too vast to hold,

too simple to explain.

And so he bows—

not in understanding,

but in quiet acceptance

that some things are meant only to be felt.

 

As they must be

The horizon glows with the first breath of day,

a soft band of rose and gold

spilling upward into the fading night.

Snow rests quiet upon the mountain,

its slopes still and eternal,

a silence deeper than words.

Against this vastness, a lone bird lifts.

Its wings slice the cool air,

not rushing, not resisting—

only carried by what is.

The mountain does not move,

the sunrise does not pause,

the bird does not question the path of its flight.

All are as they must be.

In this meeting of wing, light, and stone,

acceptance is revealed—

not as surrender,

but as belonging.

 

Moment of Awakening

Morning opens with a hush of cool mist.

Wildflowers lean toward the light—

violet, gold, and tender green—

their petals jeweled with dew.

Beyond their quiet colors,

a waterfall spills from the cliff’s edge,

silver ribbons folding into a hidden pool.

Its endless song blends with the first birds’ calls.

Far below the spray, a lone monk stands,

small against the stone and falling water,

robe the hue of weathered clay.

He does not move, yet the whole scene breathes with him.

The sun climbs the ridgeline,

casting warm gold across the cascade.

Water, flowers, light, and distant figure

become a single moment of awakening—

spring itself, simply being.

 

Hush of Dawn

The path lies soft beneath drifting petals,

a quiet river of pale pink and early light.

Cherry branches arch overhead,

their blossoms trembling with the hush of dawn.

A lone monk moves with the morning,

her robe the color of earth just before rain.

Each step leaves no mark,

each breath dissolves into the gentle air.

The rising sun spills gold through the trees,

and the blossoms catch fire in its glow.

For a moment, monk and dawn are one shimmer—

no watcher, no watched,

only the bright unfolding of now.

Petals fall.

Light deepens.

The path continues,

yet nothing needs to be reached.

 

A Single Stillness

Dawn drifts across the lotus pond,

a breath of pale gold and cool mist.

Lotus leaves float like open palms,

their pink blossoms gathering the first shy light.

A lone crane stands among them,

one leg folded, the other brushing the hush of water.

Its reflection wavers, a living brushstroke

on the pond’s glassy calm.

Beyond the reeds, Mount Fuji rises—

a quiet giant robed in morning rose.

Its snow crown catches the sun,

yet offers no sound, only presence.

The crane lowers its head,

and a ring of ripples slides outward,

soft as a forgotten prayer.

Mountain, flower, bird, and sky

merge into a single stillness

that needs no name.

 

Standing Tall

In the wide sweep of raked sand,

patterns flow like waves without sea,

spirals drawn by a hand now vanished.

Silence lingers, tender as breath.

At the garden’s center, a single sunflower rises,

its golden face turned toward the endless sky.

It blooms without witness,

yet the whole world leans into its radiance.

Beyond, on the hillside, a temple rests—

timbers darkened by years, rooflines

catching the first blush of light.

It does not call attention, only abides.

The garden does not ask for fullness.

One flower, one hill, one temple,

enough to hold all seasons.

Stillness gathers, then dissolves,

and the sunflower keeps standing tall.

 

Without Urgency

The path bends like a quiet thought,

each curve hidden beneath a rain of petals.

Soft pink drifts through the morning air,

touching earth as lightly as an unspoken word.

Cherry trees lean toward one another,

their branches weaving a sky of pale blush.

Every falling petal is a moment released,

a reminder that beauty is both gift and farewell.

Ahead, the horizon glows with a tender fire.

The sun rises not as a command,

but as a gentle offering,

warming stone, leaf, and the silent breath between heartbeats.

A lone figure walks without urgency.

The robe is plain, the lantern modest,

yet its golden halo folds the dawn into the present step.

No destination calls, only the unfolding now.

With each footfall, the world answers in stillness.

The petals continue to fall.

The light continues to grow.

Nothing more is needed.

 

The Day Unfolds

The first light folds across the pond like a quiet breath.

Mist drifts low, a silver veil through which the mountain waits,

its slopes already brushed with the gold of awakening.

Lotus flowers sway without haste.

Pink and white, they hold the sun’s reflection in their open palms.

Each petal is a silent bell, ringing only to the heart.

A crane stands at the water’s edge,

one leg resting in stillness, the other poised for a step

that may never need to be taken.

Its eyes, half-lidded, hold the patience of centuries.

The pond does not ask you to stay or to leave.

It simply receives the morning,

receives the crane,

receives the soft thought that you, too, are a beginning.

Breathe once.

The mountain glows.

The day unfolds.

 

Feast of Life

 

The feast of life

served up daily