Jayden Wolf “Eyes of Grief” (poem

Spring 2022

they had no business being there but tried with all their might to be honorable citizens of this new country. The poor Mexican Frangipani looked dead, and the Japanese Autumn Maple seemed out of place. The Japanese during their fifty-year occupation missed their beautiful autumns, so they tried planting some maples with the hope that they could get a piece of home here in Taiwan. With great surprise to all onlookers, this loner survived.

But not all the trees wanted to celebrate. Some decided that they didn’t want to join the party. In the five days since the last time I was at the Lake, the Formosan Sweet Gum lost all of her tiny, mustard yellow leaves. The poor bushes reminded me of the middle child no one ever pays enough attention to. Since everyone comes to participate in lake activities or look at the trees, no one cares about the bushes. From a distance, the bushes make the sides of the mountain look like emerald crystals that lead up to various hiking trails. These trails appear captivating, mysterious, but no one dares to explore. The Lantana Camara, the Kusukusu Eupatorium, the Golden Spotted Leaf, the Day lily and Hibiscus appeared as co-hosts and tried to give it their all with torn, sage-colored leaves hanging off the stems. The vibrant flowers I witnessed years before were all gone. This made me sad because I know how these bushes look in their glory. They often stole the spotlight from the trees when I first moved here.

Liyu Lake has many signs that say, “No Fishing.” Despite that, I still see a few people carrying rods and believing that they will get a great catch that day. During the week, I often observe young Vietnamese factory workers trying to fish. They pull out their 100-meter fishing rods to catch fish in water that is putrid and heavily polluted. That doesn’t seem to stop them though. Once I caught a glimpse of one man turning the handle hard and fast to pull the rod out of the water. I held my breath with anticipation. He pulled the guide out of the water with a skinny two-inch gray fish on the end of the hook. I wish he could have seen that I was watching him the whole time. So disappointing. All that for a tiny, polluted two-inch fish? My man needs to find a new pastime.

I passed the wannabe fishermen about seventy-five percent of the way around the lake and walked into an alley of Chinese lanterns. The outside open alley had a traditional red-brick ceiling and pillars. It was dark and cool, almost demanding that you stop and look up. When I did, I gazed at rows of amber and Chinese-red lanterns on the ceiling. They were battered, discolored, and many were missing with only the hooks left as evidence, but I didn’t care. Every Chinese New Year when I see lanterns, I think of how far I’ve come by

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