When the bells of the mountain temple break through the morning fog, the stream is brewing last year's peach blossoms into new wine.
Old tea drinkers say that it takes three rounds of rain to wake up the spring in this mountain.
The first patrol was to moisten the moss on the stele, and the second patrol was to urge the eaves and corners of the iron horse. When the third patrol passed the stone steps, the entire mountain was floating in the sea of clouds, like an unopened vat of spring brew.
I stayed in the bamboo building in the east of the temple to copy scriptures.
One rainy night, I suddenly heard a very light tapping sound coming from the tile.
When I opened the window, I saw a mountain of lights taking root from the soil, climbing up the branches along the root system of the old locust tree, and condensing into fireflies at the tips of each leaf.
The old monk who kept watch at night said that this was the God of Spring counting the unfulfilled wishes of the world.
Later, during the rainy season, someone would always break dewy peach branches and insert them into the edge of the scroll.
The ink marks and the flower marks smeared together, and it was unclear whether the scriptures crossed the flowers or the flowers crossed the scriptures.
Until that day of Guyu, I found half of the moonlight in the inkstone.
It turns out that all the waiting and meeting are just a jar of spring simmering in a stone mortar with slow fire.
I have to drink this brew for the seventh time before I can taste the rich flavor of time.
Intention: Listen to the wind and wait for the flowers to bloom
