Afterglow
When a colorless glass that once stood up to the heat begins to sweat,
persimmon-tinted droplets—and the wind that drinks them—
ripen red where the night should cool to blue,
as the moon lowers the creases of its brow into the glass.
Heat, struck by the long claws of the wind’s shudder,
stretches its dazed body and tumbles through the air,
fooled by the murmurs of residual warmth the sun left behind,
it presses its claim on the glass once more, intent on its own dominion.
Drawing up the tender rustle between the two,
within the tug-of-war of heat that rises and wind that braces,
I am caught by a longing that charges ahead without thought,
drinking the fading chill, I bend the blooming heat.
Letting midsummer pass is like
finding the loosened end of a tangled skein of heat and blue glass
and tying it back together—
a difficult journey to rekindle the breath you left behind,
yet, like a meeting on Chilseok, it is one I can always endure.
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