ContemporarySong Living

Spring never arrives all at once. It begins with a single blossom, a quiet branch, and two birds crossing the morning sky.

— The first light of spring arrives quietly, long before anyone notices.

An old plum tree, still willing to flower. A visiting bird, not staying long. The rest of the paper is left alone.

— A single branch is enough to hold an entire season.

Peonies, camellias, a pair of small birds. Nothing insists. Everything belongs.

— A garden remembered, softened by time and morning air.

One colour, patiently rendered — the blue of old porcelain, the blue of a distant morning.

— A porcelain garden, painted in a single quiet blue.

Bamboo bends in a night breeze. A moon appears, without introduction. A small bird has already passed.

— The moon rises. The bamboo listens.

Ridges fade into ridges. A river passes through. A single scholar's pavilion sits at the water's edge.

— The horizon is a doorway, not a wall.

A stand of old pines by the water. Small villages, a single bridge, a slow river.

— Strength without noise.

A traveller pauses at the foot of a mountain. A pavilion waits. The evening is patient.

— A small pavilion, a long walk back, and no hurry at all.