A letter came
before I left for Alishan
crumpled in one corner.
The imprint of your left hand.

Last year, autumn came early
thick with butterflies.
You liked to watch the swirl of leaves
as I swept the stoop.

The moss is embossed with footsteps
preserved by my slippers.
I hear your voice in the city
but it’s only the city.

In ’16, you showed me a letter
with pristine corners. The lace writing
called you to a land of floods and gorges
Here, the soil is pale.

Summer of ’15, asking myself questions
Why do I hold the pillar in a storm -
why do I climb the lookout?
I wanted our dust and ashes to be mingled forever.

It frightened me. In ’14, wed in Changan
we lost our names to each other.
Your voice, laced with warmth,
I dipped my head as if there were fences.

Remember how you rounded the bench
splattering plums like nothing
as I picked the naïve flowers
through eyes still curtained with bangs?