Karen Jiang
[our near future in progress]
Red Persimmon
Persimmon leaves
dyeing river red beryl—
the sweetness of drying fruit.
15 October 2026
Saijiki
Red leaves, trembling downpour—
lines intersect a roof of cedar louvers.
A long narrow plinth holds
your saijiki:
a pair of combs, a Mutsu and a Fuji apple,
pearls, a celadon tea set, two cheese knives.
Droplets stain exposed end grain.
I walk to a table with butterfly joints,
unpack your stored tencha into a stone mill,
and slowly grind crisp green.
I sift matcha into a black natsume
with two cranes and place it
after the cheese knives.
I will be here to place the next object
into this line.
10 October 2026
A Yuzu Seedling
A yuzu seedling—
two citrus-yellow chrysanthemums
glazed in dew.
6 October 2026
Glass Grass
Grasses of glass wrapped in silk then crushed
and wrapped then crushed—
I unwrap my milk-rose scarf
to enfold the silk remnant;
you lift it into your arms
before the last is crushed.
22 September 2026
A Gintsugi Moon Jar
You find the stairs I once showed you.
Moonlight casts water ripples on a folding
paper screen extending diagonally
across dark grey stone.
On a long wooden table, a moon jar stands—
broken pieces are laid out in a row
among urushi, brushes, rice glue, and suki-urushi.
You walk towards the asymmetrical moon jar
and embrace its round volume and exposed break lines;
I walk into the room to continue the restoration.
I freeze—the first time someone has hugged my jar,
you turn your head in my direction,
my hands remain cold as white porcelain.
When you pull away from the jar, I grab your hand—
both your arms are covered in cuts,
my tears fall onto your wounds.
The moon jar in repair uses minimal silver powder
cool and quiet around each fissure.
I grab a medical kit, carefully wiping away blood,
tending with ointment and gauze.
I pull you into a hug.
3 September 2026
White Peach, Pink-Tipped Lotus
Beaded rainwater rests
in fragrant green lotus leaves
near my grandmother’s pond.
I walk towards a waterside pavilion.
A white Chawan Basu rises
among pink blooms.
White petals carefully cup each other,
pooling light towards their pink tips;
upon closer look,
light pink petal veins hold
a pale green receptacle.
I bend down to cut the stem
near water level,
adding two small green leaves.
I place the white lotus in the center
of a suiban, angling leaves
in two opposing directions.
Walking through a sunlit corner,
a white peach tree blushes soft pink
from pale cream tones.
Plucking a ripe one from the branch,
I smile—my favorite kind
grandmother used to give me.
I pluck a few more for you.
Uncut white peach mirrors
an unbloomed white lotus.
I cut a peach into half-moon slices,
arranging them on one green leaf—
another pink-tipped lotus.
A friend brings a pink lotus,
I shake my head firmly:
no other one will do.
2 September 2026
Shiroi Ichigo
Dawn-angled light suffuses
your black denim shirt
hanging by the wooden stairs—
beaded sparkles at the shoulder
scatter onto shaded branches like pearls.
I grab my favorite book,
inside, your drawing surfaces in light
and I open a map:
waterfalls and rice fields,
a dotted path, a star,
a house as an origin point.
I lower the seat of the bicycle
you taught me how to ride;
its woven handle is gently worn,
an oval leaf sits inside the bamboo basket.
Clouds drift in still water across rice fields.
A greenhouse comes into view.
I walk towards the star—
aisles of shiroi ichigo dangle
from clusters of stems, as milk-white as pearls.
I pluck a basketful;
the same oval leaves cushion each strawberry.
I turn your map over—
a large cake sits on a table.
Shiroi ichigo cascade along one side—
did you use these for this cake?
I draw the outline of a house right below.
When I get home,
I will draw a map to my hometown for you.
13 August 2026
A Handwritten Yuwai Mamori
Summer rain—I lift up
two embroidered yuwai mamori
by the mountain stream.
A pouch with fresh daisies and pink anemones,
a pouch with white vegetal motifs upon dark grey—
two prayers sit inside
suffused with light zuko fragrance
handwritten two seasons ago.
I unravel the red cord holding the pink pouch
and the turquoise cord holding the grey pouch,
and walk to the nearest red apple tree,
binding the cords together
on the lowest inner branch
next to a furin.
Mist clings to ripening apples.
Only on the day you return
will you read what I wrote—
the daisies have turquoise pistils.
7 August 2026
Apple Trees
Dew sleeps on
one red apple tree,
one green apple tree.
As you sit beneath the red apples
I cut halves of two ripe green apples
on a bamboo table:
in a stemmed coupe glass,
I layer unsweetened red bean paste
alternating honey and
homemade yomogi rice cake balls,
thin apple slices in a circle,
with jeweled muscat grapes—
when you’re reading
I place one on your head.
I lay apple slices in a line
then roll from one end
a summer rose.
I pluck two violas
tucking a petal behind this apple slice—
where has the green grape gone?
another petal here
on your striped white dress shirt
peering from behind your book.
3 July 2026
Moonlit Jogakbo
Full moon wakes
bathing in cedar's perfume.
An acquaintance and I share
two bowls of rice wine,
her laughter like moonlight
steeped in milky wine.
Mid-sentence she mentions
your name,
your return at winter’s edge.
As she heads home, I lie awake
smoothing edges
of the silk square she left.
Laying out a few cut pieces,
I place this square in the center
assembling jogakbo.
Rectangles, trapezoids, and squares
silvered by moonlight:
I gather, arrange, rearrange.
Do I bind the hem with this stitch?
The moon whipstitches
seams of stars—
an island.
31 May 2026
Cherry and Honeybee
First cherry bloom—
I enter the study,
the house remains cold.
From the bookshelf, I reach for
a cypress box
beneath volumes of the 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.
If I do not, I fear
I might forget notes of
grandmother’s zither
plucking yesterday’s microseason.
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:
pale pink blushes like
cherry petals—
a sweet bee’s dream?
If I told you I once saw
us walking among cherry blossoms,
would you return each spring?
Since you gave this to me,
I keep it near—
a soft dream humming in a locked chest.
Should I fall asleep, will I still
wake with the comb next to my pillow
in six months’ time?
Like the honeybee nestling
in this cherry tree,
am I home?
11 April 2026
Plum Petals, Paper Screen
Midday—pink plum blossoms
beneath the plum tree,
I trace petals on the wooden floor.
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 geometry.
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;
I begin again.
I crease words into a bud,
you seem to understand
the syllables I compose.
I attend
to the butterflies’ folded wings:
their presence like light rain.
One by one they find rest
in the green grammar of summer.
Did you know plum petals are edible?
in a jar beside your table, I tuck these words—
small nerikiri confections.
On the wooden floor, I sit next to
a paper butterfly
still learning to fold each word.
7 March 2026
A Yuzu Tree
If at spring’s soft edge, a yuzu tree is planted
along the sloped mountainside
in sun-warmed soil,
pruned and protected as snow seeks to rest on its shoulders,
branches will unfurl bearing tart taut fruit.
Left to root alone as seasons turn,
snow draws yuzu farther from the sun
shrouding its aroma—
the first fruit waits to be shared.
On your open palm, I place a single yuzu seed.
If, this spring, you choose to root and tend this tree
then, in its fragrant, leaf-woven shade and slow-mellow fruit
I will be here.
11 January 2026
A Camellia Bud
When you open this letter
snow has yet to soften spring air—
inside, a camellia bud waits,
wrapped in ice,
a sunset of sanguine petals.
If kept frozen, will we see it bloom?
As the last tremolo of ice stills,
should you walk towards tomorrow’s snow,
one day, you will find a similar letter:
a bud you can nurture.
27 December 2025