February 24^th, 2020

There is a master who eats the pink clouds,
His abode shuns the haunts of the common.
As for the season, truly crisp and cool;
In summer it’s just like the fall.
Secluded brooks, a constant gurgle and splash;
Through tall pines the wind sighs and moans.
In here if you sit half a day,
You’ll forget the cares of one hundred years.