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Cured meats are making their rounds through the streets, and the air already carries the scent of th
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Love is another snowfall, a snow that will never melt.
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Grandma’s pounded tea sweetened the whole summer.
A delicate cotton-tipped needle tethers that sun-warmed afternoon.
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Flowers will eventually wither, but that year’s fragrance lingers in the breeze.
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Even after many years, I still remember the fragrant hearth fire on that rainy day.
There’s a kind of heartache called left-behind.
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Raising our glasses, clinking them—this year has come to an end.
The fan blades hum with a hint of rust; childhood lies just behind the breeze.
Later, as I revisited the past, I realized that time had flown by like the wind.
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It’s already great to have someone by your side that summer.
The spring rain will cease, and people will grow old, but the aroma of that bowl of noodles is unfor
What is the best age in a person’s life?
Be a grown-up in the wind and rain, and a child in the sunshine.
Hidden among the minced petals is the entire height of summer.
Half-turning the jump rope, I glimpse the hardships Mom never spoke of.
The clouds outside listen as we chat about a fairytale of the base.
The chirping of insects drifts over the field ridges, and the moon chases after the path we once ran
Autumn rain sings a chilly song, yet our hearts burn with warmth.
The stretch of road where I waited for the bus with my mom now feels so short when I think about it.
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