waking in Toronto
after a long sleep
in Taipei
I sit at the window watching rain splash against the glass and pound the pavement. It’s falling so forcefully that the rose in my front yard bows low, its petals scattered on the ground.
In Taipei, where I grew up, we called this the “Plum Rain Season” because it comes when the plums are ripening. There it rains for three to four weeks.
As a child, I would sit by the screen door and enjoy seeing people rush along the puddled road, their coats over their heads, the rainwater splashing up in a dense spray. Watching these sights and sounds from inside my warm house somehow made me feel safe and secure.
left in my bowl
a few grains
of rice
after a long sleep
in Taipei
I sit at the window watching rain splash against the glass and pound the pavement. It’s falling so forcefully that the rose in my front yard bows low, its petals scattered on the ground.
In Taipei, where I grew up, we called this the “Plum Rain Season” because it comes when the plums are ripening. There it rains for three to four weeks.
As a child, I would sit by the screen door and enjoy seeing people rush along the puddled road, their coats over their heads, the rainwater splashing up in a dense spray. Watching these sights and sounds from inside my warm house somehow made me feel safe and secure.
left in my bowl
a few grains
of rice
A Hundred Gourds, 1:1, December 2011
