Wet Cherry Blossom Path, Morning
By the water where the drizzle has stopped, a white sky spreads across the wet path. Trying not to step on the petals, I stood there a long while.
Late Frost
Level 5Every spring I go to the same riverside. I watch only until the blossoms fall, then go home.
꽃 피고 지는 강변, 사랑이 지나간 자리
Mostly One scene, with other forms mixed in, often about love·the seasons.
A Petal Stuck to a Shoe
Outside the cafe window, nine in the morning. The coffee cups set between the two of them are just as they were, and I look on from outside the window, like someone who has never sat in that seat. It was this same hour, that day too. This morning a cherry petal I met at the subway entrance stuck to my shoe and walked a long way with me. It was awkward to brush off, so I let it be. All the way down the stairs, that petal trembled on the top of my foot. Going down the stairs with the petal still on my shoe, I saw the same petal stuck to the shoes of the person standing ahead of me. We had come from different entrances, and yet it was the same petal. That person went down the stairs without brushing it off either. Around the time the subway doors closed, the cherry tree outside the window swayed in the wind. A few leaves struck the glass and slid down. The steam from the coffee cups slowly faded away.
End of the Alley, Night
Today, too, I looked back that way. The streetlight spreads across the ground like a wet stain, and it takes a beat to know there is no one at the end of it. The alley that person used to walk down toward me has become the road I walk out along. Beneath the cherry tree that has dropped its leaves, I stop and slowly turn my back.
Outside the Cafe Window, Nine in the Morning
The coffee cups set between the two of them are just as they were, and I look on from outside the window, like someone who has never sat in that seat. It was this same hour, that day too.
Shoulders Rather Than the View
On the morning subway, the view outside the window rushes past. I saw a line of shoulders like that person's. I rode one stop too far. That is how memory does its work. With no warning it appears at my back and takes me, for a moment, off onto a side road from where I was going. Around the time the scenery outside grew unfamiliar, I finally let out my breath. A scene where morning begins with the sound of the subway doors closing. On my way to work I often look at the shoulders of people leaning by the windows. With every closing of the doors, a different morning must be opening. I, too, have come to stand by the window now and look not at the passing scenery but at the shoulders of the people inside it. Each time the doors open and close, the shoulders shift a little. On glass steeped in the dawn air, someone's shoulder is reflected today too, brushing past.
Scent Seeping from the Wardrobe's Gap
Late Frost Breeze Even left hanging, spring remembers the creases of that coat. Tonight I follow those creases. There's one coat that lets the scent of spring out first, every time I open the wardrobe. I don't suppose I'll ever take it out to wear again. Even with the door closed, that scent seeps out through the wardrobe's gap. Though the days go by without my wearing it, spring keeps finding its way back to that place. There were days I hung that coat by the window. When the wind passed through the sleeves, a season still young brushed past the two of us together. Does that wind still linger in the collar, I wonder. Even late at night, the wardrobe's gap holds the light of spring quietly in the dark. A door shut all winter opens on its own when spring comes. The coat only hangs there, and yet the season arrives first and strolls through its creases. When morning comes the wardrobe will go quiet again. Leaving only the scent, remembering only the creases.