Classic Poem

I like hanbok because it's roomy:
pants, blouse, and coat
are warm, homey apparel.
Those feelings of reassurance
that wrap me when I wear hanbok,
where do they come from?
My hair, turned foam, freezes
as it stretches to the distant shoreline.
I'm at an age when
my ears
hear the sound of a different sea,
an age on which snow is piling.
Winds lash the frozen land
but my hanbok is amply padded.
Hanbok isn't just apparel.
It is the weave — with breaths strong and liberal —
of a stolid life homeward bound.
Cotton pants, blouse, coat —
dyed jade:
hanbok wraps the body and in doing so
lets me strip the body away.