Karen Jiang
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 improving
The 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
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 a Wisteria
Branches, roots, streams of undulating light,
A wisteria redolent of age sits in stillness.
Like crystalised raindrops from gentle summer past,
In the wind, a single soul
Rests softly in lavender petals—
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 in stillness.
Like crystalised raindrops from gentle summer past,
In the wind, a single soul
Rests softly in lavender petals—
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—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