Autumn Breeze Orange Moon

From Beijing in the 1980s, when I began writing poetry in high school, to New York in 2021, time seems to have passed in the blink of an eye. We have crossed into another century and lived through several eras. Everything has changed completely, yet one thing remains: a poet’s heart. Like the young person I once was, it still senses the warmth and chill of life through the smallest stirrings of feeling.

For many years, I stopped writing poetry. Compared with the weight of prose, poetry seemed like a feather, so light that I could take it or leave it.

Yet after I had finally traveled the paths that life requires of us, after history had repeatedly shown me how places remain while people change, poetry suddenly returned as a long-missed rainbow and a sky full of stars, illuminating the darkest hollow at the bottom of my heart.

It was no longer merely an outpouring of emotion, but a necessity of life. The appearance of an autumn leaf or a drop of dew is never without meaning. Poetry was no longer a source of melancholy, but of continual discovery and delight—like returning to the God who created us.

I resumed writing poetry in Chinese in 2011, and by 2018 the poems were coming in waves. Poetry became another kind of diary, recording the voyage of my life. The pandemic of 2020 changed how we lived and thought, opening our eyes anew to the visible material world and the invisible life of the spirit. As Second Corinthians tells us, we turn our attention toward what is unseen: what we can see is temporary, while what we cannot see is eternal.

If poetry is the reflection of the soul, this collection reflects both the light that reaches us and the changes within the heart. Through those changes, New York, my second home, became an essential part of my life. Its autumn breezes and bright moon filled my days with a shimmering radiance, forming a milestone built from the imagery and signs of language.