Senses
are perceptions way of painting,
with the sensuality of a sable brush,
but this life is an artwork
without an artist,
perception without a perceiver

Even you
are but a free-floating culmination
of geometries,
up, down, in, out, this-a-way and that,
the wind catching its breath,
water drying its face in a pond,
a motionless journey on the inside of out
and vice versa;
the end rising tall at the start of beginning;
parallel tracks in the snow
telling the long, winding tale of skis,
laid out in history like the reliefs of Persepolis;
the rosaries of alphabets
in the hands of the speechless

Meanwhile, winter is a hideout
deep down the thermometers;
summer all out attraction
up the glimmer of foliages