Poem

I am from the toy cars lining up beside a small bed,

a Bookshelf so tall that I could never reach its third row,

and a south-facing window that gives me warm, golden sunshine.

I am from the sunflower trying to grow out of my window,

            and the apricot tree, whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I am from the willows that never stop dancing,

the breeze that gently hugs everyone who walks by western lake,

and the delicate, slender hand that never let go of mine.

I am from the lamp that is still on at 4 am,

            the watery sunlight shining through chink in the curtains,

            and the long crow of rooster splitting the gray morning sky.

I am from the roar of the huge airplanes,

            the steel wings that pierce through the sun,

            and the moist, worm Shanghai air, the smell of home.

I am from the a slide so long that never end,

a swing so old that it is swings and sings,

and a bicycle always silently lying in the back yard, with a wheel that had twice the size of my head.