This morning our cities speak in steam
and everything and I extend into blossom.
Sepals open for a show of white then pink
and red and red and red. 

And yesterday, I bought some dumplings 
from a woman who reminded me 
so much of my grandmother
I emptied my wallet with a smile.
And there, meager embers woke in me 
and too blossomed and red shreds 
of luck overtook the streets.

Here, in San Francisco, I make soup and burn 
incense to invite wisdom into my home 
as each joss stick ashes itself into memory.

I too am like this—always approaching the bottom
of that thin red sliver as the cherry descends—
I, so focused on its absence, diminish my offering.

But in New York, my father opens 
an orange and it is good. In New Jersey, 
my auntie braids a plait of dough 
and we want for nothing.

And this morning, we celebrate 
and heat broth, pull every tray from our fridges, 
smile to one another, a red red smile,
and take in these gifts of pleasure, 
and texture, and heat
and we stir the fat back in.