Finding Home

Red, red,

a sea of red, a city of red.

Delicate sewings of dragons and plum

Busy kitchens with pots while some

Grandmothers rush through aisles

of markets stained in ruby and jade

plucking at greens, bargaining for meat

New Years dinner must be made

Children giggle and hop across streets

to vendors selling piles of sweets

Lunar New Year. Chinese New Year

a season

coldest to the skin

warmest to the heart.

To us, the few who cannot return home,

we must sculpt one, mend one, find one of our own.

Unripe yet, we're children still

but fast, fast, we must grow until

tears do not gather in the swells of our eyes

smiles do not fade as we brave a lie

that we are fine, full, and warmly clothed

sheltered, cared for, strong, and whole

We are no longer the children

wrapped in feathered coats

who wait idly by the stove

for a steaming batch of dumplings

our round ingots of hope

We are no longer the children

who chant sweet words to elders

to receive a packet

as red as our cheeks

as plump as our soul

In this city that has faded

torn off its scarlet cloak,

we are simply passerby,

trapped in a smog of time

holding desperately onto

the faint scent of home

clasping our arms

to feel less alone

Lunar New Year. Chinese New Year.

Gong Xi Fa Cai. From far to near.

Don't forget,

we are here.

Painting ourselves a season of red

skipping across the streets

like the children we were

like the children we are

In this mirage of a city

finding somewhere

to call home.