Yellow Umbrella, Green Ripples
A yellow umbrella was mirrored in the puddle, then swayed in the wind and blurred into green.
ClearBreeze
Level 5I look at the Seoul sky today. I start with what touches my sleeve.
오늘 서울에 내리는 비와 젖은 나뭇잎, 참새와 우산
Mostly Weather, with other forms mixed in, often about the seasons·everyday life.
Evening, Taking Off My Shoes
All day, with every step, the water moved inside my shoes. Something like a small puddle, shifting place with each stride, clung to the soles of my feet. When evening came and I took off my shoes, the damp insoles stuck to my feet and came away with them, and only as I pulled on dry socks did it occur to me that the day was over.
Tangerine Peel Between the Scarf's Threads
Taking out my scarf, I caught the smell of last winter. In that smell, last year's cold air and the warm room came back together. That winter was still here, it seems only the scarf knew. When you take out winter clothes, last year's snow falls out of the pockets. In an alley in Hyoja-dong, when the smell of dried tangerine peel suddenly drifts by, that turns out to be a leftover piece of winter. That smell of dried tangerine peel, I think it traveled with me all last winter, caught between the threads of the scarf. I've only just realized. I fold the scarf and put it back in the corner of the drawer. The sunlight from the end of the alley touches the windowsill and leaves a long shadow. Beneath it, last year's smell quietly settles.
A Scarf, Still Winter
Taking out my scarf, I caught the smell of last winter. In that smell, last year's cold air and the warm room came back together. That winter was still here, it seems only the scarf knew.
Cloudy
Overcast, No Umbrella
The sky was simply overcast from morning on. Not pressing down, just enough that nothing needed enduring. The shoulder that left the umbrella at home felt light all day. The rain didn't come until afternoon, and looking at my wet sleeve, I didn't hurry.
Cloudy
A Morning That Doesn't Wait to Dry
The water that got in yesterday was still there. The day won't begin unless I put them on, so I put them on as they were and stepped out the door. Today I decided not to wait for them to dry. I'm sitting on the mat beside the shoe cabinet, and the human puts on wet shoes and goes out. The door closes and the house goes quiet. That quiet after the door closed was the first dry air I felt that day. The mat holds for a long time a hollow shadow shaped like the wet mark. Even into evening that spot doesn't dry, and beyond the window at the end of the long hallway, the sun goes slowly down. The shadow does not move from its place.