The mountains rise up
in grim shapes,
looming far above
the workers and the monk,
meditating in his cell.
They ignore the towering rocks
at their peril.
What else can they do?
The mountains indifferently
turn away. You are
transient, they seem to say.
And where are the peach trees,
and peach blossoms,
and where is spring?
They’re not even there.
They’re unimportant.
The mountains are everything.