Wuxing Category: Wood (木)
1-xx
The year exhales a final, frozen breath,
Sifting white silence over the sleeping soil.
Sturdy evergreens hold the weight of the sky,
Their needles were cloaked in a pristine, heavy lace.
The air is sharp, a crystalline clarity of cold,
Carrying the bruised scent of crushed juniper berries
And the resinous, ancient strength of the pine.
In the center, a lone Plum Blossom tree waits.
My heart finds its rhythm in this quietude,
Where the ___plum blossom’s promise___ begins to stir.
I see your face in the porcelain grace of the landscape,
A beauty unequaled, a light that burns through the frost.
Your enticing scent is etched upon my very soul,
A fragrance more vital than any mountain forest.
I carry your love as a warmth beneath the snow,
A secret fire that refuses to be extinguished by the wind,
Waiting for the moment your laughter breaks the ice.
The garden stands in a trance of silver and gray,
Yet the dark wood of the tree is taut with life.
Small, stubborn buds press against the biting air,
Defying the calendar of the long, white months.
The shadows of the branches stretch across the courtyard,
Inking a map of patience upon the frozen earth.
Nature holds its breath in the deep, winter hollow,
Respecting the strength required to remain upright.
This devotion is the heat that begets a new spring,
Honoring the ___plum blossom’s promise___ in the thaw.
I look toward the year to come with a hallowed dread,
The kind of awe one feels before a rising sun.
I offer you my hand, my honor, and my name,
Vowing a love that is as constant as the seasons.
The distance is but a winter that we must endure,
For the bloom is certain, and the roots are deep,
And my soul belongs to the radiance of your eyes.
刘嘉文
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