The poem below is dedicated to my flower, Mo Li Hau.
Hearing her voice, I'm submerged in a deluge of memories akin to winds streaming across vast expanses, the vastness of the ocean, carrying urgent whispers. These winds are searching for a stage, a platform, much like a desperate poet eager to present a tale — the tale of a little bird. Amidst smoky fires, choked by darkness, the bird longs for escape, for transformation. There are rooms, distant yet reachable, where one can metamorphose, where feathers can gleam like stars and new horizons beckon.
This narrative the Wind seeks to present is not just a random tale but an emotional plea, a love letter of sorts, meant to rescue not just the little bird but every soul trapped in raging fires, yearning for a new dawn. It's a tale that holds the promise of red berries amidst oak hills, frozen notes in singing fields, and mysterious boys with navy eyes. The Wind wishes to present this story to those who still believe in hope, transformation, and the magic of new beginnings. It seeks an audience that can not only hear but also act — an audience that can open windows to new worlds and offer solace amidst the chaos.
I imagine those winds ring with her voice, expressing modesty. Her words fell silent at the bells that shimmered with a muted yellow hue like weathered gold in the spring sun. They lay on her back, reminding me of scattered ocher moths flirting in the woods. She was tossing the bells about, reacting to the rugged terrain, sounding her gentle steps with each note.
Together, we'd play at dusk as if racing against the night itself, projecting our life into the stars; our cast light reached the endless void of imagination like children playing with the sun. Our nights were vast with anticipation, covertly to capture the first light; we sought to extinguish the night's flames so our day would never come.
She would hang those bells on limbs, evocatively waiting in silence, still as the air, adding to dawn's suspense and the composition of her thoughts. A gratification of sublime witness, in the morning, the bells would harmonize with her voice, blending with the colorful whispers of the ocean and the rush of day to create a melody that encapsulated our shared breaths. It felt like sending musical winds to be captured in a love letter that opened a new world to little birds escaping fires. The bond was as infinite as the sea, rooted to the earth yet reaching toward the sky like a tethered kite.
The sands shifted beneath us with an immense tide. The coastline bearing witness to our love changed, eroded by ceaseless waves and storms. At times, the ephemeral marks left on the sand, our footprints in foam washed away, would return me to our days of carefree delight. Our silhouettes joyfully dance against the setting sun. Such moments spark a deep yearning, an ache for that fleeting innocence I hear when you arrive—a familiar bell unique to me. Like a fox taming a little prince, your bells sing me a fresh song to follow and be free.
We see life as metaphorical streams, and time is unyielding. Moments that once seemed eternal now feel as brief as a moth's dance by the lantern light. As we journeyed together, there were instances where we felt lost, like those bells cast into the wind, gleaming bright but scattered like the stars we wished to visit and could never reach. With the breeze behind us, the jasmine flower's fragrances are still fresh in my mind. Jasmine has a scent that stands stark against the salinity of the ocean. Jasmine's essence was captured in the morning light when the bells chimed brightly. A reminder of her warmth, like sipping tea on a cold day when the mist spins itself into a cocoon, and we nestle in a cabin away from the rain with the feeling of home.
With her gone, there's silence in my world. Yet echoes of our shared past—the bells, the taste of the morning's fog and salt—linger. Every sunset makes me ponder what stories she would have painted on the horizon.
She was my heart's flower. Like all blooms, they seed new intentions, heralding fresh starts. I was the poet speaking of love's bittersweet tales, and the fresh green apples that lovers eat beneath the Chinese rose pagoda. Are flowers whimsical, I ask myself? I compare her to the moon's play among the clouds. She would sometimes shield her deepest sentiments like the moon's subtle yet irreplaceably radiant changing face. Jasmine spoke with an unadorned sincerity; she professed no poetic inclinations in her heart. Yet, when I sought a window to her mind, she instead expressed a desire – a wish for me to take her somewhere enchanting to fill her poetic needs.
Her words left me pondering the nature of flowers, their allure, their essence. Each one is unique in its tale and scent, yet universally captivating. It reminded me of the Cherokee rose, which whispers stories of love and longing through its fragrance of fresh green apples, seducing those fortunate that crush its leaves. Where do you take someone adorned with such a natural coronet? A maiden crowned with buds, blooming with potential, mystery, and allure.
Do we retreat to the comforting embrace of wildflower meadows, where nature's symphony plays uninterrupted? Or do we venture to serene watersides, where leaves dance in the water, creating an ever-changing mosaic of colors? Each locale is a possible sanctuary where Jasmine's heart might find its song, like a new fire lite in a cabin on a misty day.
So we journeyed beside rushing brooks; we discovered a cabin tucked within the embracing hills. Blanketed by mist, a warmth emanates from its heart. Our touch is soft, our yearnings palpable. We wrap ourselves in dreams, our desires mirroring the allure of jasmine tea on a foggy day. Our journey, bathed in the light of new beginnings, feels like the rebirth that spring promises. Amidst nature's storms, we search for that elusive luminance. Can our love thrive like the earth in the nurturing rain?
Every challenge strengthens our bond, symbolized by the enduring dogwood blossoms. The strength and beauty of nature parallel our love story like a verdant gospel, urging us to bare our souls and rediscover the essence of our bond with the earth. As the rain outside paints new stories, we draw closer, warmed by our shared devotion. Each moment with you is like opening petals to reveal a more profound truth. As we undress our souls, do we find redemption in the purity of love? Our words and breath intertwine in this shared space, creating a tapestry of emotions as vivid as the dogwood's bloom.