As spring passes, summer arrives, tender bamboo shoots beg for purity, golden kites hovering in breezes, blowing boisterously, giving haste to young chests when the winds die down. Obsessed with radiant days and flames that rise to heaven, resting inside heavy hearts, leaving one’s hollow holes becoming one with rain drops propping up the sky. The sea is made smooth, its waves left, beginning and ending, rising – their roots assembling, then overflowing over and over again. Oh, my dear – how the season thaws and softens with meandering mud bleeding red into the snow; stagnant morning dew made from when earth and fire were formed thousands of years ago. Love sprouts and blooms as fire and water rush by, robbers and thieves whisper words in the wind blowing from the highlands to the mountainside. Yellow lights are hung by pink flamingo birds as the phoenixes descend onto red mounts; fire, wind and life gather as guitars are heard. Tao curves and forthright hearts cross, drying up only to become wet again. How perpetually life floats by in lullabies, flags and banners, blowing up dust, leaving the disloyal alone to their heats’ content. In early summer as bamboo rises to thunder’s beautiful youthful songs, notes falling into soup pots one by one, cooking themselves into the sky beyond, rustling high up into the sunshine, throwing columns of invisible smoke up into the air and my mind.