The Persimmon Tree and My Mother
Together, we planted a tiny persimmon sapling,
no thicker than a finger.
Side by side, we dug into the stony soil
until our fingertips wore thin.
The wind carried us sunshine,
and our family pushed each dawn forward.
Today, I should be picking its fruit,
but you have departed
with the autumn to a distant place.
A single persimmon waits on a plate upon the table,
yet my lips refuse it.
All your life, Mother, you wrote and taught
God’s love and devotion upon the earth
with your whole being for your children.
My eyes, shimmering with tears, have become autumn-red persimmons.
RED
Even when the male flower does not open its lips,
it is the season when my body bursts open first.
To receive you as you draw near, a flower that has emptied itself—
fragrance is only an excuse.
Let me soak into you in my own way,
with a handful of wind.
I set the shadow of the male flower ablaze.
The moment flowers burst into full bloom across my body,
I will be the first to rub against insomnia.
Fragrance shall never confine me within a frame.
For I missed you every time I looked,
the quiet swell of this body resounds
when I touch the naked body of moonlight.
Is it desire, or is it fate?
When love begins, it is not the coming of spring,
but the birth of fire.
I will willingly stand within its heart,
like the wind that breathes upon love and makes it burn.
