Image by Jörg Vieli from Pixabay
First snow of the year,
hardly an inch on the ground.
But the wind is howling, the air is chill,
reminding me of another winter long ago.
The southern edge of Mongolian steppe,
wind-swept, dust swirled, potato frozen like stone.
Gusts bit your nose, blue your lips, redden your face.
Everybody was bundled up like a ball.
All the girls were talented--A family of sisters with a loving mother.
They knitted, they kneaded, they cut papers into pictures.
"You can't do anything." They said to me, jokingly.
"You can't even make a nice looking dumpling."
I was clumsy and awkward,
but I loved the girls--I loved to be scolded by them too.
They were shy and blunt, fearful and daring,
beautiful with no help from fashion.
I thought life was unfair--
Why was I not born one of them?
Their mother was warm while my mother was cold like
the tofu she froze outside the window, why?
Oh, perish the thought about the past.
There's a truck plowing the street,
there's the sound of ice scraped from a windshield.
Life goes on, memory fades away...