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.
