Smooth water
forms a soft word
on a little patch of cool stone,
a wettened calligraphy brush
diligently
tracing the nine strokes
of “Spring”
on the ground between
me and him,
him and I.
And I swear a thousand li
separate me
and his wind-battered hair,
glinting silver in
afternoon sunshine, with
dewy eyes that
quietly scream help!
help!
And my father’s perspiring fingers
seek my hands as
we turn from the old stranger,
hunched by a trash can in the midst of a busy street
where a busy Chinese Dragon dances across the humbled home
of Beijing,
welcoming the new year
like it forgot him.