Three Winds Passing Over Edison, New Jersey
Haolun Xu
i.
Triple-winged arch of sky. Bird migration, by faithful observation.
I will not stop. My soul has not finished talking and I am not so rude as to interrupt it. I will not rest by the cedar trees near the river, nor the small hammock made from wool. I see people with their legs crossed, and I know now it is summer.
Perhaps this whole world revolves around running over to talk to another, late at night. So what happens when that doesn’t work. The voice as mirage, as a failed flow state. Yet how would I know any better? I can still remember my past life, that old thing before I could fly.
I am the sickle-shaped breeze that carries one plastic bag past the office buildings, before setting it down in the plaza by Wood Avenue. I placed it into the trash, on top of the discarded apples. Of course I am devoted to this place. Where will my ass go, if I am not careful?
ii.
Within the invisible border between April and May. Apologies, really. I didn’t mean to shake off so many petals from the bloomed hawthorn tree this morning. How even the spiky-balls of the oak fell to the ground. What ground. I wonder how it feels to land, so decisively against the floor. Like rain, which must have fallen the night so peacefully before.
This morning. Heavy curtain of fog right beyond the small field’s parameters. Perhaps I should lift the fog early, to reveal the mysteries of this year’s spring. But the meadowlark is singing, and I won’t interrupt it. Not yet, not yet.
iii.
The florist’s husband has died from throat cancer. I pass by her on Route 27 as she tells a visiting friend that she will be alright. The friend offers to buy every azalea in the store, before saying her condolences. It’s okay, the florist said to the friend, I am strong. Extroverted, and hopeful.
I, so covered in fragrances of grass from that other place, carried him home to wait for her. It is not impossible that help will arrive. Come now, strange earth. You belong to me.