Twelfth lunar month
The north wind hones its silver blade, Against the eaves where frost is laid. The twelfth moon wakes in a rush of white, Shortening the day, and lengthening the light Of lanterns being dusted, one by one, To catch the fading amber of the sun.
Along the alleys, the heavy scent begins— Of cured meats drying, and ginger-rubbed skins. A symphony of salt, of star anise and smoke, Hanging from rafters like a winter cloak. The Kitchen God watches from his paper frame, As we sweeten his lips to protect our name.
There is a restless joy in the bustling street, The rhythmic rhythm of returning feet. Old windows are scrubbed until they can see The coming bloom of the plum blossom tree. We sweep out the dust of the year that has passed, Saving the brightest stories for last.
The air is brittle, the tea is steam, The world is caught in a crimson dream. Not yet the firecrackers, not yet the roar, Just the quiet "almost" at the wooden door.
