Series for the IsLight poetry Thanksgiving issue
It's another year of Thanksgiving. Every year, we are thankful for the existence of poetry. In the face of all the tearing, clutter, and uncertainty, it is poetry that makes us realize that we are still under the same sky and enjoy the same vision. That is why "we cry out for poetry, steer the boat of poetry, and set sail for everyone."
Feng Feng, I'm writing to you
I'm writing to the whole world.
The cherry blossoms have fallen from some trees.
The ground is littered with fragments of stars.
Have you ever glimpsed the secrets of spring?
Phoenix, what do you look like?
Some say she looks like spring
In spring, we were at the junction of the lake and the fish.
Sheep herding, whistling, listening to the peach blossoms falling.
The other side of the sea is still the sea
We learned to embrace each other like wanderers and vagabonds
She slides to the bottom of the lake like a steep fish
There are no flowers in the pots by the lake
She hides herself in
In a secret
Feng Feng, have you ever heard the words of spring
Her words
Floating in the strawberry jam-flavored morning class
Attached to the cracks in the wings of butterflies that land in poetry books
Do you see the sleeping petunias
The sleeping petunia in my grandfather's garden?
Spring has sent it a dream.
"like water flowing quietly into a stream.
Dancing with Horses. The horse's hooves passed through the golden clouds
Stomping up black smoke
Covering the world with excess
Torches cast our shadows on cave walls, waves rushing in
In clouds of water and fire
A butterfly submerged in the depths of the sea
A myriad of people
Reaching the home of the stars
Why do the roots of seeds grow underground?
I have never understood the sorrows of the tree.
Aphids and books are the AB side of the journey.
I think, I write letters, I read books that don't matter.
But then I turn my head and see the tree outside my window, in the clear sky.
Collapsed with a bang
It was covered in leaves
Like an elephant on my face.
Feng Feng, I'm asking you
When are you coming back
My poem
It has consumed the last bit of fiery red sun at the end of summer
Everything has become burnt and brittle
The last leaves have been ground into powder, gasping for breath as they tumble along the road.
Lanterns hang in the sky
And the cornstalks at night have streams of light rolling through them.
Did the streams of light ever put on your earrings?
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