阿嬤的蒲扇搖碎一整個(gè)夏天，

井水浸著西瓜甜到我童年。

灶膛里柴火噼啪講舊年，

月光爬上她銀簪，像雪落無聲。

她哼的山歌忘了詞，

卻把我輕輕拍進(jìn)夢(mèng)邊緣。

皺紋深處藏著稻田，

我越長越高，她越縮越小，

最后縮成供臺(tái)上，

一幀不肯老的相片。

Grandfather, cast your shadow through the tide,

let his line pull quiet thunder from the dark.

Salt climbs the hull like slow white years;

your palms, still printed on his shoulders,

steer the reel while moonlight braids our names.

Deep below, a silver ache remembers land—

he breathes you in the curl of every wave,

and I, small on the pier, hold all three hearts

beating in the hush between the floats,

until the ocean folds, soft as linen,

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