Shorn Sheep

They cut the grass

off the hill

and now it’s a shorn sheep,

hanging his vain head

after they chopped off

all his lovely wool.

Drought

It lingered at first –

just underneath the surface,

in the days between rainfall

in the cracks in the dirt

in the grasses that yellowed a few weeks early –

unnoticed

except by farmers and scientists.

 

And then it was here,

claiming its prizes:

the creeks, the reservoirs, the lakes.

They faded to puddles

and then to cracked dirt and dust.

Cicadas

They shed their shells, you know.
And fly away in their shiny new bodies.
I’ve shed my summers
much the same way.
Long, hot days of hollow nothings,
leaving ghostly exoskeletons in my wake.
I fly away feeling fresh and shiny
but look back to see
all my deeds
are frail shells crunching underfoot
already dust on the winds.

Travelling in Europe as an Asian-American

“Hi, do you know where the metro is?”
“Yes, it’s that way. I’ll show you.”
“Thank you!”
— We start walking. —
“Are you new here?”
“Yes, we’re here on vacation from the US.”
“Are you from China? Japan?”
“No, actually we’re from the US.”
“Korea? Vietnam?”
“No, we’re from the US.”
“The Philippines? Malaysia?”

It smells like California in summertime —

like dust and baking dirt,

dried grasses,

sagebrush and oak,

like thick mats of algae on drought-plagued creeks,

like garlic in the cool early morning

and cow manure in the afternoon on long stretches of farm roads.

I breathe all this with love.

Because it smells like home and childhood.

 

 

 

 

I like the familiar feeling

of being distracted by a book.

Of math equations working

themselves out in the back

of my mind

while I write the numbers

and think about the story

calling to me

and dragging my fingers to

is pages every few minutes.

Fleeting

The wild spring oats,

so luminous and green in the sunlight

will fade to wispy yellow

by summertime.

 

Young, shiny cherry-plums,

firm and plum for a few weeks

will sag to dripping blood-red flesh

and splatter on the sidewalk.

 

The creek tumbles full, freshet

along its reed-choked path,

but it slows to a sluggish trickle

when rains cease to revive it.

 

And the glow of dawn

will glare to mid-day

then thicken to dusk, but

the sun must always rise again.

 

The Storm

I woke up at 3 a.m.

to the house bracing itself against the wind

and rain showering the window

like handfuls of pebbles cast up

by a lover, asking me to come down.

Faintly – chirp –

through creaking limbs – chirp –

and gusting winds – chirp –

come the tenacious crickets’ song

as though they know

they can outlast the showers

and when the rains drizzle out

and the winds slow and get snagged

in lightly swaying tree branches

the chirps are still there

to sing me back to sleep.

Lunch Banana

Version 1:

My banana is

brown and yellow and squishy.

Not juicy

and not sweet.

Why is it a fruit?

 

Version 2:

 

Ah! Ripe banana.

Thou art brown and yellow,

and thou doth squish in the cavern of my mouth.

Thou art not juicy,

thou art not sweet.

Why dost thou bear the name

“fruit”?

Treasure Trove

I can tell you a thing or two

about the coastal redwood grove,

Show you the emerald ferns and

sapphire lilac – a treasure trove.

 

The pine scent and blackberries

create the queenliest perfume;

moss-robed boulders are monuments

more stately than an emperor’s tomb.

 

The brook gurgling cryptically in its gorge

rivals the song of the nightingale,

and yet, the grove passes out of memory –

fading – like a seldom-travelled trail.