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.