The barren land after the fall harvest
is the heart of a mother.

With the proud memory of field-full vegetables,
scars from the muscle fights against the summer storms,
wrinkles from the protective frowns at the lightening nights,
holes scattered all over with the fun memory of the first sprout of greens.

They are now Kimchi and Kadduki
on the meal table of a poet
sharing joy of a family
among those small hands of children
and between the friendly lips of couples

That is all I want!
Now I wait for the second Grace
When the white snow covers
my worn-out brown skins
I would have hope for the next Greens.

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