Meeting you is like spring water reflecting pear blossoms,
Seeing you is like the chirping of cicadas accompanying the summer,
Thinking of you is like a thousand arrows piercing my heart,
Remembering you is like the spring breeze brushing the mountain ridge,
Watching you is like fireworks illuminating the world,
The poems I write for you,
Last for a thousand years,
Known by all,
But only the title remains.
Beneath the slow breath of morning soil,
the onion hums and its layered heart asleep,
a pale globe guarding tears untold.
Nearby, garlic dreams in clustered cloves,
its scent a fierce devotion to the earth.
A door stands quiet, out of sight,
Its edges lined with silver light.
It hums a tune both soft and low,
Of secret lands the brave may know.
I am from coffee beans,
from bitter brews and cracked porcelain mugs.
I am from the steamed soy eggs,
the scent that clings to mornings
like an old, Chinese dwelling.
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