One More Dance

Cynthia Zhang
(November 12, 2012)

One More Dance

 

My dear,

Give me your hand,

Let me lead you through

Our waltz one more time.

Come,

The band is waiting.

 

When my life is ending,

I will dance with you

One more time

In honor of our union

In the candle light.

 

Smile on your face,

Your grace is my bliss.

How could I live

A different life?

 

Remember that birthday party

You hosted for me?

Remember that little girl

Tottering and giggling,

And striding into youth?

But still, she departed us

To have her own life.                                     

 

My dear,

I ask for your hand,

One more time.

Come,

The band is waiting.

 

Forgive my stumbling steps.

I am still adjusting

My breath

To look closely at your face.

The beauty of your face

Is the only pearl

I have ever had.

Forgive my language.

It is not enough to use.

 

When your life is also close

To its end,

You look as stunning

As you were

Decades ago.

Your gaze is still

As deep as

I can hardly seize.  

 

Remember, my dear,

Our wedding dance?

You were nineteen,

 I was twenty.

 

My eyes could not

Leave your face.

My hands grabbed

Tightly around your waist.

Our breath

Exhaled into

Our mouths.

Our hands wetted

With our tears.

 

With eyes around us,

With stars above us,

With vows binding us,

We started our first

Wedding dance,

Feet in one direction.

Left.

 

Left, right, left.

One, two, three, left.

 

Laughter around us,

Wine without us,

Our hearts melted

For us.

 

One, two, three.

Left.

One, two, three,

We eloped.

 

Remember that,

My dear?

We eloped

From our own wedding.

Can you believe it

Now?

 

Up we ran

To our wedding chamber

On the sixth floor.

Melodies in our heads,

I folded your eyes

With my hand.

 

Your feet were on mine.

Your body was in my arm.

Sweat on your neck

Tasted sweet.

 

I took off my right hand,

And asked you

To open your eyes.

You turned  your head around

With a voluptuous look,

Exposing your swan neck.

 

Your feet on mine,

Your hands in mine,

Trot, trot, trot,

We trotted

The final steps into

Our new life.

 

I still remember

The final trembling

At the far end of your hair

Following the toxic swirling

Of your head.

 

My dear,

Our steps are not as nimble

As before.

But let me lead you

Through this waltz

We call our own

One more time.

 

You are still my

Nineteen year old bride,

My only bride.

So let’s dance.

One last time.

 

At the end of the road,

I will see that brilliant sunset

In the west.

My dear,

You will feel my heart

With you

When I am no more.

 

But before that,

Let’s dance one more time

In commemoration

Of our marriage.

Without you,

I have never been.

 

Your hands in mine,

Your feet following mine,

One more waltz,

We will meet again.

I promise.

 

Tranquility

 

Born in the country,

A full moon reluctantly put on

Her orange veil

Tiptoeing on the shoulders of

The range hovering on

An endless road leading to the city.

 

She climbed up the mountain.

When she stepped down,

It was a week later.

Hiding in the inspectors,

She did not miss

Any of the joyous free style

Corn trail summersaults and dragging

In a cloudless sky 

On a warm winter dusk.

 

Had she decided to trust,

She should have given

Some reminiscent time

To an unearthly world of

An unforeseen virgin snow

And a guarding forest

Of silent black pines.

 

Had she decided to forgive,

She should have unveiled

The untrue beauty of

A floating haven in a crystal ball

To more eager hearts.

 

But she wanted to keep the night

To herself

And share part of the day with the sun

In a mere week’s time.

 

The spoiled daughter of the sun

Dared to challenge

When there was an eventless peace

In the nature,

When all the people had

Was a gift from the sun,

When the clean chill

And momentary blinding fog

Only preluded her show:

A show of lowered eyelids

And blushed cheeks

Of a brand new bride.

 

Born in the country,

The moon came back to the country,

Not taking her luggage from

A busy world of fatigue.

 

When she was back,

She did not have to brush up

Her memories of the happiness

Of leisurely talk of

Gardening and horse back riding.

When she was home,

She did not have to warm up

To kiss her family and old friends

With a warm accent

That had never changed.

 

The moon followed me back.

(Originally written on December 9, 2012)

The Beauty of Youth

 

The beauty of youth is pretension.

The most innocent gaze

And the sporadic movements

Are used to pronounce the name

With the softest voice.

 

The beauty of youth is nature.

Leaning against the wall,

He could barely carry

The weight of his own smile.

 

The beauty of youth is depth.

His embrace might be home.

His promise is for a life time.

And he might die for all of that.

(Originally written November 2, 2011)

You're Like the Moon

 

Like the moon in the sky,

Like the clouds in the lake,

You're beautiful

You're unreachable.

 

With the days between us,

With the miles between us,

We're hopeless

We're in two worlds.

(Originally written September 21, 2011)

That Look in Marty's Eyes

That Look in Marty’s Eyes

Cynthia Zhang

Marty’s eyes squinted at the indescribable slope afar,

“Look at that! The golden sunshine reflects

On the cattle on that green hill.”

“It is magnificent!” Echoed our fellow walker.

“Ridiculously beautiful!” I said,

While gazing into Marty’s eyes.

 

My scenery was those eyes of Marty’s.

Tears welled up there.

Marty kept squinting.

A man in his eighties,

Marty was in love with nature,

A woman he had been dating for several years,

A late wife he never regretted a single day

To spend time with in their marriage,

And now the very simple pleasure of looking at

Life and light.

What is more exquisite than that?

The Grey Crane

Cynthia Zhang

(Written on January 30, 2011)

 

Oh ho!

Startled by a grey shadow shooting out of the bush,

I held my breath to watch over to the lake.

Look, a grey crane!

 

Reaching out on her wings,

The crane was a motionless moving giant against the sky,

Until she slowly and lightly landed on the ice afar.

Only then could I breathe again.

 

“Beautiful! I should have brought my camera.”

Two ladies nearby shrugged to each other.

Their dogs were gazing at the standing crane.

 

All by herself on the vast lake,

With the bright winter afternoon sunshine all over,

The grey crane closed her eyes.

The world she escaped from was still there,

Not a bit of the bustling and hustling lessened,

Including me watching her.

 

I smiled to myself.

I became part of the world to the crane

When all I needed was to escape from the world,

Even if just momentarily.

Work, life, love, family.

Oh, do NOT forget, the exam.

 

A long walk along the lake brought me back

To where I met the crane.

Absorbed in my own thoughts,

I caught a glimpse of a grey shadow next to me.

Not a shadow this time.

I could almost touch the fine glimmering feather,

And the slim yellowish long legs.

Oh! My…

 

Again, she shot out with an elegant slide

Over the sky to land on the thin ice away from me

As if she was making fun of my childish appall

At her unearthly beauty.

 

“Hey, you’re beautiful, my crane!”

I articulated and repeated.

My crane!

You are there with me with your life and beauty!

And you will be with me in my words and heart.

The Phantom - Mountain Rain

The Phantom -  Mountain Rain

Cynthia Zhang
(Originally Written Nov. 24, 2011)

 

The white cloak blocked the car window.

 

Frantic heart and tightened skull

Helped little with a highway ten feet long.

 

This phantom of the mountain

Pressed his face unto the rims of

My misty glasses.

 

Tugging his cloak around

Each and every inch of the space

Where there was oxygen,

The phantom wanted his face to be seen.

 

Behind the mask,

There was a face

Different from any other.

Wake up,

See all the mountains cut by half!

 

Releasing his grip

Around my throat, the phantom

Took off his ground touching cloak,

Cutting it into pieces,

Transforming bits and pieces

Into cloud-like light fog.

 

Look afar,

Silver silk surrounded

The black mountains.

Look down,

My car floated on

The steamy ocean.

Look back, there was the phantom.

 

The phantom without his mask!

His face was wrinkled and rottening!

 

Please, put on your mask!

 

Music inside.

Food and sweet disserts.

Look outside,

My phantom was rocking around.

 

His eyes closed,

Tapping his feet,

His hands directing a band:

Come, he said, come to me.

Come, he invited, come outside

To join me,

To be subsumed by

This slow rhythm of two.

 

My palm in his,

I swirled and

Glided:

Once, twice, thrice...

Then, bump!

 

Gliding and swirling,

Carried away by the

Fleshy hillside and

Sprawling pasture,

I broke again,

Oh, no,

Into his rocky lap.

 

My phantom flew,

Fleeing from his crime scene:

Come, my dear,

I am now hiding behind

This homy farmland

With a small house of

Building blocks.

 

Do not be frightened by my mask.

Look my way,

Look close at my face,

When you might not

Be able to see my body.

 

There, on the yonder side

Of the mountain range,

would rise Appolo,

My phantom...

 

I would wait till tomorrow

If tomorrow would ever come.

When the rays of the sun

Would Stroke the lifeline

Of the elevation,

I would rinse my feet

In the lucid stream.

I would wear my wooden

Mountain flip flops

To climb to the peak.

 

My phantom,

Kneeling down to spread

His cloak of fine linen on the grass,

Would escort me to ride

Over the heights,

To breathe in and with

The mountains,

Till the essence from them

Would sweep clean

The small worries,

Till we become nature.