I woke up on the right side of the bed this morning
With the sun shining through my eyelids
Before I even knew I was awake
And my ear angled just right
To hear the feather-winged chatter
That I so missed during the months
of wading in drifted snow
(with my head down,
looking for something lost,
though I’d long forgotten what I was searching for)
Today I will meet everyone at their eyes
Though I know
Spring is a fickle lover
For this moment
I am choosing bliss
The rain came down on Seoul.
My soul it bathed and seduced.
For a sole wanderer far from home,
Seoul filled my sole soul with youth.
It’s raining today and I don’t want it to be. It’s a cold, dreary January rain and I want nothing more than for it to be snowing. I am deeply craving the quiet that comes with powdery snow, and the even deeper cold that comes with that snow. I am not quite sure why. I have always identified myself as a “summer person.” Despite the fact that I want it to be snowing, the current weather reminded me of this brief poem that I wrote some time ago while reminiscing about living in Korea. I lived there ten years ago.
Summer came early that year in Korea, bringing heat and heaviness to the air. The trademarks of summer that I was used to–blue skies, clear sunshine–were not there. Even on cloudless days, the sun was obscured by haze. It rained a lot in July, and even when the clouds left the sky, the sun was but a blurred glow, having the same effect as viewing a light through a frosted window. In those days I welcomed the rain. For a few years after I returned from Korea, hot and rainy summer days often flooded my mind with memories of my time overseas. All weather talk aside, I loved spending time in Seoul and would go back again in a heartbeat.
Although as I am writing this, it is not hot and humid, and is in fact January, and on top of that I want nothing more than two feet of snow, I still could not resist posting a blurb about summer rain in Seoul.
Red lights through ink black blur.
Through windows, wet ice snow.
Slap-smack Slap-smack Slap-smack.
The windshield wipers’ drummer’s march
Calls ancient newborn eyes
To man the office post.