my work is drenched :: breaks stone into mist

could the origin of leaves be autumn        and helpless falling

does the light of today remember its birth

last drops of rain in hands of a breeze        stirring what others need

how does one keep company        with a rose from the end of the world

for love of the house        our table is small

let us kneel down with mountains        repairing the wind

serenity within the seed :: tell me everything