Across highways of water and wind
lies a mist-coated isle, where
purple mountain peaks sit, perched,
overseeing the rolling green hills
where the cicadas sing her a song.
Towering stone stairwells. The heave
of her breath, air in her lungs
gushing out like whirlwinds
in the rose bushes. Yet still she goes,
still climbing, still. Soon she
reaches the top and feels
the soft soil of the summit,
comforting and soft like the
warmth of a hand over her back.
Ancient shrines lay waiting to renew.