In spring, you don’t have to talk to the crabapple;
let the rain do the talking.
White blossoms, like corners of drowsy eyes,
gaze skyward.
Strange icy droplets,
your fingers spread wide beneath the tree.
白色的海棠,似惺忪的眼角,
望向空中
陌生而冰冷的水滴
树底下张开指头的你。
At the branch tips, condensing and falling,
is the rain’s incessant reply.
While with your umbrella, you open
many questions.
在枝头,凝结并且坠落的,
是雨水持续地回答,
而你有一把伞,打开了
诸多疑问。
They can’t be answered;
you don’t understand that a flower doesn’t wilt
from disappointment,
but naturally, furled by the wind.
Still, you immerse yourself in asking.
解答不了,
你不懂一朵花的衰败,
并不出自失望,
它自然而然,让风卷住。
你只是兀自沉浸其中。
Springtime is misleading,
and you can’t restrain your doubts.
If a dream is just a dream,
then what’s lost remains lost.
You don’t have to talk to the crabapple anymore;
the rain will do the talking.
As you return your umbrella this afternoon,
what ought to fall, has already fallen,
what is yet to emerge, is not yet emergent.
你不必再与海棠说话,
雨水会说。
你归还雨具的这个下午,
该落下的,已经落了,
未生发的,尚不自发。
Crabapple Blossoms | Poetry is a story from our issue, “Lessons For Life.” To read the entire issue, become a subscriber and receive the full magazine. Alternatively, you can purchase the digital version from the App Store.