Awakened from spring drowsiness,
Toasty warm within quilts warmed by the ondool floor,
A floor heated by the ashes of coal and wood
Pushed in from the kitchen hearth.
Mother chided us to dress,
And go into the hill to bring home
The tender herbs to make namool,
A salad mixed with sesame oil and vinegar.
Grimacing as we put on our cold dresses,
We hurriedly gulped the warm, steaming rice
With pieces of salted black beans
And bites of radish kim-chee.
Slipping on our rubber shoes,
We ran out through the front dirt yard,
Scattering the cackling chickens
And dodging the bell-clanging goats.
Pushing open the massive, wooden door, into the field,
We ran looking at two girls swinging higher and higher,
Standing together on a wooden slat, head thrust back,
Upward into the sky of apple blossoms.
We rushed through the gardens reeking with night soil,
Filled with green onions and lettuces,
We balanced with outstretched arms,
On mounds dividing the rice paddies.
Up the hill, scampering zig-zag to outwit the snakes,
And picking the stooped poppies calling them grandmothers.
Finding the green springs, we pinched the tops,
Or pulled the entire plant of leaves, roots and clinging dirt.
We rushed back to mother,
Our hands full with our bouquet of spring promises
From the fertile earth.
Copyright 2005 by Portia Choi. All rights reserved.