Self-Portrait

Chunyan took her first breath near summer.

Her name: Portrait of Spring. Keyue, a baby

tied by the waist to a tree, gazed at his parents

hunched over far fields, sowing seeds.

On the family dog, he fell asleep, dreaming

of slack season. One faith, two middle children,

match made at first meet. Her calm gaze upon

the stranger boy peeling watermelon seeds

between his teeth. A spray of wintersweet

leaned on the church window, listening in.

Their hands touched by chance, trading zip

codes on calendar paper, thin as 1 Timothy.

Three years, two hundred letters. Swan geese

hastening between unis, one inland, one

by the sea. Qin ai de Yan, he said. My dear

Portrait. Youth, like plum, a snow birthed

honey. Graduation. Mid-kiss on the reef.

Ready? Look back. Click. He said, May time

Chunyan’s baby, I was born in spring.