Duration

Morning does not arrive. It opens.

Gold rests on water. Water accepts without keeping.

The pavilion stands. It does not try to be seen.

Wind moves lightly through the pines. Light moves across wood. Nothing asks to remain.

Time is not slower here. It is wider.

A step becomes enough. A breath becomes full.

You do not observe the space. You enter it.

You do not measure the moment. You inhabit it.

Pleasure appears quietly, in the pause before speaking, in the reflection that trembles and settles, in the awareness that nothing needs to hurry.

The sun rises. The water receives. The day unfolds.

And you, for a moment, do not move ahead of it.