On Mont-Tremblant, I searched
The falling leaves in a ravine
For a perfect maple leaf,
An ideal one as a bookmark that
I would leave on my nightstand.
I picked up a golden one,
Oh, how I admired the rich smear
As if sunlight dagger through
Black clouds after a storm;
If only the small lobe is not missing.
I picked up a vermilion one,
A perfect five lobes,
Shy green veins like
Delicate moss on an aged rock;
Only if anthracnose left you intact.
I picked up a multicolored one,
I see seasons in one face!
Green on the left, burnt orange the other,
And yellow in between as if a snaky river;
If only I could erase the tar spots like tumors.
I picked up a green one,
A young one free of hardship of the mountain,
The disease that disfigures,
The insects that amputate,
And the animals that trample,
Only it is tiny, pale, vain.
I brought all the blemished ones home.
