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My recent Series for the IsLight poetry Thanksgiving issue

It's another year of Thanksgiving. Every year, we are thankful for the existence of poetry. In the face of all the tearing, clutter, and uncertainty, it is poetry that makes us realize that we are still under the same sky and enjoy the same vision. That is why "we cry out for poetry, steer the boat of poetry, and set sail for everyone."

"Feng Feng, I'm writing to youI'm writing to the whole world.The cherry blossoms have fallen from some trees.The ground is littered with fragments of stars.Have you ever glimpsed the secrets of spring?"
"Feng, what do you look like?Some say she looks like springIn spring, we were at the junction of the lake and the fish.Sheep herding, whistling, listening to the peach blossoms falling.The other side of the sea is still the seaWe learned to embrace each other like wanderers and vagabondsShe slides to the bottom of the lake like a steep fishThere are no flowers in the pots by the lakeShe hides herself inIn a secret"

"Feng, have you ever heard the words of springHer wordsFloating in the strawberry jam-flavored morning classAttached to the cracks in the wings of butterflies that land in poetry booksDo you see the sleeping petuniasThe sleeping petunia in my grandfather's garden?Spring has sent it a dream."like water flowing quietly into a stream."

"Dancing with Horses. The horse's hooves passed through the golden cloudsStomping up black smokeCovering the world with excessTorches cast our shadows on cave walls, waves rushing inIn clouds of water and fireA butterfly submerged in the depths of the seaA myriad of peopleReaching the home of the stars"
"Why do the roots of seeds grow underground?I have never understood the sorrows of the tree.Aphids and books are the AB side of the journey.I think, I write letters, I read books that don't matter.But then I turn my head and see the tree outside my window, in the clear sky.Collapsed with a bangIt was covered in leavesLike an elephant on my face."

"Feng, I'm asking youWhen are you coming backMy poemIt has consumed the last bit of fiery red sun at the end of summerEverything has become burnt and brittleThe last leaves have been ground into powder, gasping for breath as they tumble along the road.Lanterns hang in the skyAnd the cornstalks at night have streams of light rolling through them.Did the streams of light ever put on your earrings?"

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