(inspired by Pablo Neruda’s “Mediodía”)
Our house has the light of the sun in the afternoon:
orange tea cups and saucers;
scripts of scribes from the land of hibiscus,
and your smile runs like film through the theater of my mind.
A warm yellow glow illuminates gray stone and triangles from Bangkok,
it comes with a whistle of the kettle for the brew of Balinese beans,
between the double flame of the pumpkin brulee and green cedar,
you ascend to the balcony above.
Here in this city I will live with you in joy and love,
eternal, with gayageums, blue waves, and pianos,
with only a dialog of wind and water.
While you move upward or down on the stairs, walking or running,
I am there,
singing or reading, knitting or cooking; you nail things down;
we write, return, embrace.
When all the world says,”It is winter,” we say, “In fact, it is spring.”