I am touch.
A rinse of saffron rice.
parable on a summers day.
A green leaf waiting to wilt.

I am journey.
From the depths of the oceans.
To rim of the bay.

The gentle blow of the wind,
that picks up the aroma of your winter wine.

The mountain grows much slower than your perception of the mountain growing taller, as the dynamics of the sea, which sculpts the earth beneath your feet, speaks—summoning the breeze: isn't it surreal, living on God's pottery wheel?