I Dye the Years with Red Maples

I want to borrow a red maple leaf to smooth away the years and paint the evening clouds red. I pour a cup of strong old wine to toast the past, stolen without mercy, and the weary figure burdened from head to toe. Then I take a breath of fresh air and board the one-way train that has no return journey. I admire the splendid flowers along the way, find the forgotten piece of fluorite in the river of time, and pick up the red maple leaf blown down by the years. Then I smooth the travel bag wrinkled by the breeze, shoulder the autumn wind and clouds, and limp alone toward the distance. I seek the full moon I forgot in the water as a child, and the shy sun hidden away in a place no one knows.