THE FIFTH SEASON
In the stumps of the yard,
The broken edges of axes have left,
Like a guestbook,
Endless signatures and lines,
Marks.
The heavy doors of the towers
Cast a breeze,
Like sherbet for brides
When they step over the threshold
For the first time.
In the guest room,
Like a whirlpool,
Magic draws you in.
Everywhere the air embraces,
The springs kiss hands,
Trees open eyes of joy,
Birds scatter clouds and darkness,
Avalanches rest,
Paths widen into trails,
Slopes lend a hand,
Peaks bow before the guest.
The four seasons
Change like dancers in a beautiful dance,
But hospitality is a season
That never changes.