He walked slowly.
Not because he was tired—
but because the morning asked him to.
The path was lined with asagao—morning glories—
blue, violet, white,
all still damp with dew.
Some petals still curled from sleep,
others already wide open,
stretching toward the light.
He wore a white linen samue.
The fabric barely touched his skin,
and yet it carried the breeze like a second language.
It rustled softly with each step,
as if bowing to the flowers he passed.
No one else was there.
No cameras, no voices, no footsteps but his own.
Just a wooden path, a garden coming awake,
and the soft breath of a new day.
Somewhere, a cicada buzzed once,
then went quiet again.
He didn’t carry a phone, or a watch.
Time, this morning,
was not a thing to keep—
but a thing to release.
At the end of the path,
he stopped.
Closed his eyes.
Listened.
The wind moved through the leaves,
and the flowers moved with it—
as if to say,
“Yes. This moment is enough.”
In the right robe,
on the right morning,
even silence wears color.
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