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Rain-sweet air clings to the stone causeway; every leaf gleams with last night’s bloom.  At the pond, mirrored darkness cups the sky’s first tremor.  I lean close, sensing how stillness thickens once observation grows reverent.  Long exposure is less decision than devotion: a willingness to let time speak its full sentence.

In studio solitude, chiaroscuro becomes continuation rather than correction.  Shadows open like doors to deeper rooms; highlights breathe out of the paper’s warm bamboo grain.  What was received at the pond is offered forward—light held in trust, then released.

 

Light steps barefoot
onto the broad back of water,
gathering centuries of hush
in a single cupped palm.

Clouds drift like unvoiced psalms;
five towers ascend and descend
within the same held breath.

Somewhere between wing-beat and prayer
the horizon loosens its name—
time slipping, shutter-slow,
into an older word for awe.

Whatever remains of us here
is only stillness listening
after seeing—
a filament of reflection
trembling,
unbroken.


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Where light lingers, time kneels. The world waits to be seen — not taken, but received.
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