Within the change there is a wind, stirring, lifting the branches.
The birch-leaves scatter, heart-shaped coins, dropping upon the grass.
While holding a piece of jade, taken from a mountain of serpentine, I close my eyes.
There is no more eye, only aye. And there the golden shower is unceasing. Thoughts descend in translucent geometries, as if in crystal-flakes and keys to knowledge not yet unlocked, as a snow that does not chill, ushering in a winter of transformation.