Our days are filledwith silent salutations as our nights wander on to tomorrow's shore dreams lap at the edge of desperation as hope promises an ever-open door

dragonwell fills my yi-xing pot as aromatic steam curls in lofty streams making me, for a moment, forget the grey no insinuations, pretense, nor enigmatic dreams

the landscape is awash with black and white on a breeze floats a harbinger of days ahead a whisper of how mistakes can wither and drop dead from their vines to nurture the wise ground and give such sweet reprise to those who still believe