Sapling, a fragile reaching,
towards the sun's insistent call.
Woods cradle the tender green,
leaves unfurling, a soft whisper
against the rough bark.
Greenery spills, a vibrant stain
on the earth's dark canvas.
Roots, tenacious fingers, grasping,
anchoring, a silent conversation
with the soil's hidden depths.

Branches, arms outstretched,
a latticework of shadows,
sheltering secrets whispered
on the wind's breath.
Timber, the heartwood's strength,
a testament to time endured,
seasons weathered, storms survived.
Forest, a living tapestry, woven
with rustling leaves and silent growth.

Leaves, a symphony of color,
shifting with the sun's slow dance.
Gold, crimson, a fiery farewell
before the quiet sleep of winter.
The cycle continues, a rhythm
unfolding, a timeless ballet
of life and death.

Sunlight, a golden cascade,
filtering through the canopy's embrace.
Each ray a promise, a whisper
of renewal, of warmth, of life.
Roots, a tangled embrace,
drawing strength from the earth's core.
Branches, reaching for the heavens,
a silent plea, a quiet prayer.

Twilight descends, a hush falls,
the tree stands sentinel, guardian
of whispered dreams, secrets held
in the rustling leaves.
Forest's heart beats softly,
a symphony of whispers, a chorus
of life, a testament to time.
Timber's strength, roots' embrace,
leaves' gentle sigh, a story told
in the language of the woods.

A whisper of green, a delicate bloom,
Hemlock's sweet scent, a perfumed tomb.
Innocent petals, so fragile and white,
Concealing a darkness, a final night.

A bitter tang, on the tongue it lies,
A chilling embrace, as the body sighs.
Numbness creeps in, a slow, gentle freeze,
The world fades away, on a chilling breeze.

The limbs grow heavy, the senses grow dim,
A quiet surrender, to fate's cruel whim.
The heartbeats falter, a slowing drum,
As darkness descends, and senses go numb.

The mind still flickers, a fading light,
Aware of the ending, the endless night.
A philosophical question, a final jest,
"I drank what?" he asks, putting fate to the test.

I have no voice, but my song fills your heart.
I have no form, but my presence is an art.
I bloom in silence, a delicate flower,
Nourished by respect, in every shared hour.
I burn with a passion, a gentle warm light,
Reflecting your soul, both morning and night.
I ask for no grand gestures, no jewels, nor gold,
Just a whispered promise, a story untold.
What am I, treasured and precious and true,
A bond between two, me and you?

... Love

Spring, a hesitant touch, like the first unfurling of a fern.  Sunlight, a pale gold wash over new green shoots, mirroring the shy blossoming of our affection.  Stolen glances, quick as the darting of hummingbirds, a shared laugh, light as the breeze whispering through willow branches.  The air thick with the promise of something more, a burgeoning warmth that melts the last frost of doubt.  We walk hand in hand, the earth beneath our feet soft and yielding, a reflection of our hearts opening to each other.  The scent of hyacinth and damp earth, a heady perfume that intoxicates the senses, a prelude to the vibrant summer to come.

Summer, a blaze of color, a riot of sensation.  Days long and languid, stretching out like sun-drenched meadows.  Our love, a sunflower turning its face to the light, bold and unapologetic.  Passionate embraces, as fierce as a summer storm, leaving us breathless and renewed.  We swim in lakes, cool and dark, our bodies slick with water, mirroring the depths of our feelings.  The taste of ripe berries, sweet and ****, lingers on our tongues, a reminder of the sweetness we’ve found in each other.  Fireflies ignite the twilight, tiny sparks of light mirroring the fire that burns between us.

Autumn, a tapestry of russet and gold, a time of mellow reflection.  Our love, a vintage wine, rich and complex, aged to perfection.  Long walks through forests ablaze with color, leaves crunching beneath our feet like whispered secrets.  We gather close, drawn together by the chill in the air, finding warmth in each other’s arms.  The scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon, a comforting aroma that fills our home, a sanctuary built for two.  Our conversations deepen, like the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, exploring the hidden corners of our souls.  We are grateful for the harvest of our love, the bounty of shared experiences.

Winter, a blanket of white, a time of quiet intimacy.  Our love, a flickering candle in a darkened room, a beacon of warmth and light.  Snow falls softly outside, muffling the world, creating a cocoon of peace around us.  We curl up by the fire, wrapped in blankets, sharing stories and dreams.  Hot chocolate, rich and creamy, warms our hands and our hearts.  The silence is filled with unspoken words, a language of love that transcends all others.  Our bond, like the evergreen trees, remains strong and steadfast, enduring the harshest of winters.

And as the seasons turn again, as spring’s first blush returns, I long to walk this path with you once more.  Each bud, each bloom, each ray of sunshine, each falling leaf, each snowflake, a reminder of the beauty we’ve created together.  I want to relive every moment, every touch, every word, every season of our love, again and again, forever.

The tenderness of youth often blinds us to the true nature of love.  We chase the flame, relishing the passion, mistaking infatuation for something deeper.  Yearning for connection, we grasp at fleeting moments of enchantment, cherishing the illusion of a love that will last forever.  But first love, more often than not, is a training ground, a place where we learn the language of the heart, even if the words are sometimes mispronounced.  It leaves its mark, a scar both visible and internal, a reminder of the intensity of those early emotions.  We carry these experiences with us, shaping our understanding of what love can be.

Later in life, the landscape of the heart is different.  Scars are visible, stories etched into the lines around our eyes.  The flame of youth may burn a little less brightly, but in its place, a deeper warmth emerges.  We have learned to distinguish between infatuation and true connection, to recognize the difference between fleeting passion and enduring tenderness.  The yearning remains, but it is tempered by experience, a knowing that love is not just a feeling, but a choice.

And then, unexpectedly, it happens.  A connection sparks, a resonance that transcends the years.  It may not be the first love of youthful memory, but it carries a different kind of magic.  It is a love seasoned by life, enriched by shared experiences, and grounded in mutual understanding.  There is a cherishing that comes with knowing the fragility of time, a relish for the present moment, and a passion that burns with a steady, unwavering flame.

This love, found later in life, is a testament to the enduring power of the human heart.  It is a first true love, a love that encompasses all the lessons learned, all the scars endured, and all the yearnings finally fulfilled.  It is a love that whispers, "You are home," a love that promises, "This is forever."  It is a love that proves that first love can happen at any age, and that true love is always worth waiting for.

Just meant as an educational post.
In Asian cultures,  family names are first, then given names.
In western culture, this is the opposite.
English names can follow the pronunciation of the Chinese name.
A woman with the name Ping, may adopt Apple ad her name as ping guo is Apple in Chinese.

When written in calligraphy,  Kanji, or Korean,  it is always written this way.  When using pinyin (romanized) characters it can be written with a space or more formalized with an apostrophe between the surname and given.  So for those who truly would like to know.   You can call me Cal.