A breeze.

There is lust in the eyes of the seasons as each take their turn. The rolling fields of green to turn to purest white in time, and then in turn to baron brown to sprout in green again.

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The blaze.

Under stars of frozen light, careless to dark beneath them. Subject to winds which chill the bone and keep any warmth at bay. One huddles with who and what they have to escape the bite of ice.

Splitting logs.

The crashing hit of axe on wood sounds as I split them this way and that. A sound which fills me with such joy to know what comes. Placing wood on wood to set it where I will, and down comes the crash to split and shatter again.

The shoots.

From beneath the leaves and twigs of the year gone by they come. Heralded by the fleeting snows and rising sun, nourished by rain and breeze alike, they emerge from the ground below.

Flowering fields of fortune.

Many times I had gone by those fields where fortune flowers. My wealth was noticed on the path and where those paths did lead.