Karen Jiang
[in progress~]
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.
In a raindrop,
your afterimage wavers
like mist clinging to the ripening apples.
Only on the day you return
will you read what I wrote—
the daisies have turquoise pistils too.
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