Karen Jiang
First cherry bloom—
entering the empty study room
not alone; still cold
From the bookshelf, I reach for
a cypress box
beneath volumes of classics.
Half sunlit desk
I set aside yesterday’s writing
and untie the woven cord.
Lifting the rectangular lid—
stamped envelope, calligraphy brush,
a round pale-pink comb.
Opening the unaddressed envelope
I unfold
half-finished gridded sheets.
Upon stone, I press
ink
in slow circles;
I practice strokes
of my grandfather’s surname.
I am afraid that if I do not,
I might forget the warmth of
a home
I used to know.
I want to go home.
A drowsy buzz drifts—
a honeybee rests in cherry blossoms,
an afternoon nap.
Placing the newly written lines
in the box, I lift the comb
to leaf-filtered light:
cherry petals mirror
translucent pale pink—
a sweet bee’s dream?
If I told you I once envisioned
us walking among cherry blossoms
would you believe me?
Since you gave this to me
I have kept it close
a dream I never dared wish for.
Should I fall asleep, will I still
wake
with the comb next to my pillow?
In six months’ time, will it
still be here?
Even a short farewell hurts.
Like the honeybee nestling in
this cherry tree,
am I home?
11 April 2026
Plum Petals, Paper Screen
Midday—pink plum blossoms.
On the wooden floor
beneath the plum tree, I trace delicate petals.
A light tapping—I sit upright.
Behind the paper screen,
you hold another paper butterfly aloft,
Sunlight wavers in the wind;
I smile—you never tire of refining
their fluttering shapes and motions.
In my drawer, I have collected each iteration.
I want to learn to fold them
as you do.
You crease the paper with quiet patience;
I sit beside you watching
as the air ripens with plum scent.
Each time I tried,
an asymmetrical paper leaf emerged.
Drawing a new sheet
I crease words into a tender bud.
Looking up, you seem to understand
the syllables I compose.
‘Did you know plum petals are edible?’
In a jar beside your table, I tuck these words—
small nerikiri confections.
Though their presence cannot supplant yours,
in the butterflies’ enduring warmth and joy
I attend to all they have to share.
How quietly paper wings gather
like plum blossoms
as petals part in winter’s first frost.
On the wooden floor, I sit next to
a paper butterfly
awaiting fragrant and lucid plum mornings.
7 March 2026
Under the Wisteria
Branches, roots, streams of undulating light,
a wisteria redolent of age
sits like crystal raindrops from gentle summer past.
In the wind, a single soul rests
in lavender pillows,
my dear Grandma,
when you leave
we will meet again—
Here, I promise, we can stroll hand in hand
with Grandpa every day until we reach
the scent of our beloved Osmanthus tree.
Where does time flow?
Microseconds amble by, unhurried.
Does all life begin as dust?
All life returns to dust.
a wisteria redolent of age
sits like crystal raindrops from gentle summer past.
In the wind, a single soul rests
in lavender pillows,
my dear Grandma,
when you leave
we will meet again—
Here, I promise, we can stroll hand in hand
with Grandpa every day until we reach
the scent of our beloved Osmanthus tree.
Where does time flow?
Microseconds amble by, unhurried.
Does all life begin as dust?
All life returns to dust.
17 January 2026
A Yuzu Tree
If one day, at spring’s soft edge, a yuzu tree is planted—
sloped along the mountainside
in the embrace of full sun within living, breathing soil
pruned and protected as snow seeks to rest on its shoulders,
branches will unfurl bearing good fruit.
Are we not unlike this tree?
Left unattended as seasons transpire
in severe frost: measured dissipation.
Brittle in the gentlest of winds,
a soft cry in silence, unseen.
On your open palm, I leave a single yuzu seed.
If, in the coming spring, you choose to root and tend this tree
then, in its fragrant, dappled shade and slow-mellow fruit
I will be here.
11 January 2026
A Camellia Bud
When you open this letter
the snow will have melted away.
Inside, a camellia bud—silent, expectant—waits
gently wrapped in ice,
a sunset of sanguine petals, suspended.
If frozen, will we live to see it bloom?
When the last ice melts,
time will reclaim what I tried to preserve.
When the last ice melts,
time will reclaim what I tried to preserve.
Should you part with the thawing snow,
I wish, one day, you will find a similar letter.
One you can keep and grow.
27 December 2025