Surrounded by potato fields
The gate stands,
half buried by the fresh leaves
Of goose grass.
on my mind,
a wind-pierced body.
the sound of a bell
as it leaves the bell.
Insects on a bough
Li-Young Lee, from Rose.
In the steamer is the trout
seasoned with slivers of ginger,
two sprigs of green onion, and sesame oil.
We shall eat it with rice for lunch,
brothers, sister, my mother who will
taste the sweetest meat of the head,
holding it between her fingers
deftly, the way my father did
weeks ago. Then he lay down
to sleep like a snow-covered road
winding through pines older than him,
without any travelers, and lonely for no one.