The *tanka is a thirty-one-syllable poem, traditionally written in a single unbroken line. A form of waka, Japanese song or verse, tanka translates as “short song,” and is better known in its five-line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count form.
When I was young there was this Koreanovela titled Winter Sonata, a part of a series titled Endless Love. I was nine or maybe 10, innocent and clueless, but that was my first encounter with you— season of snowflakes and magic.
It has been more or less three decades and you remain a dream to me. To watch how your fairy flakes fall ever so slowly, from heaven to the waiting parched earth. How your tiny drops can eventually cover a city’s entire map. How you serve as natural soundproofing, silencing the murmurs of the earth for a few months.
While some links your beauty with gloom and doom (let’s face it, you can also be cruel), but as was written, “What’s essential is invisible to the eye”, we, we mere mortals were not able to witness the kingdom you protect behind your thick coating. We do not know that inside you sleep pregnant seeds and there you nurture them away from any predators. And how unselfishly you melt, little by little, vacating the streets and roads you conquered, knowing it’s time for births, and it’s time for you to go.
Under white blanket,
hide so patient, tender twigs.
Hello, spring sunshine.
Let’s put a little spring into our step today, shall we? Let’s spring into action. Or let’s just enjoy that first taste of spring. After all, Punxsutawney Phil predicted an early Spring on Ground Hog’s Day. Yesterday’s temperatures, at least in New York’s backyard, warmed to spring low temperatures.
Like an elusive dream I silently hope to see how you undress—
from cold white to fresh green then to shy yellow and then to scarlet red,
from freckled to plump and lush to skinny and then to skeletal bare.
Like an enchanting perfume I secretly imagine your scent change—
from chilling trace of frost to charming whiff of blooming flowers
and then to sweet vibrant smell of the sun and finally to loamy, rustic earth aroma.
Like a locked desire I hope to bask my senses into your stunning metamorphosis,
my dear seasons.
Note: Living in a country with two seasons (wet and dry), autumn and winter have been my fascinations since I am a little girl. This is why they are mostly the inspirations of my poems and fictions. 😉
Our old cherry tree is pregnant again with its plump, bloody, cheerful fruits, which always remind me of your red lips as soft as the sound of the flute— until that wintry day came and turned them so blue and oh, so cold.