The mountain folds in upon itself,
Down valleys of finger veins,
Washing along the trees and stone,
From the sky’s wide window frame,
Like undulant shadows in fields of grass,
Hawthorn bushes that claw the way,
His hand swishes cross mountain tops,
Stirring clouds where I wish to stay,
Flowing fields of yellow and green,
Flashing leaves of golden light,
A painting by the imperial artist,
Brushing bold strokes of life,
Of mist, of moon, of shining sun,
Of wind, of rain, of snow,
The heat of glorious summer,
Gives way to autumn’s glow.
