In the afternoon, when the sunlight is soft,
I take the hand of my almost-five-year-old daughter and we go to the neighbourhood park.

There’s a large forest in this park,
And everyone spends time there as they please—
There are couples having picnics,
Joggers, and people walking their dogs.

Children of a similar age to my daughter
Run around the plaza and have fun on the play equipment,
But my daughter and I only look at the ground.

We look around the area quickly, and move a little.
Sometimes, we crouch down and pick something up
And we look at each other. ​

It’s the leaves that have fallen from the trees
That we are looking at.

They vary in colour and shape.
Some are smooth and shiny,
Some have tips that are serrated like a saw,
And some have been chewed by insects and have a neat round hole in the centre.

Even leaves that have fallen from the same tree
Have some individuality,
And not one is exactly the same shape as another.

I put my daughter’s favorite leaf from that day
In the pocket of my notebook
And take it back to the house.

My daughter imagines various animals from those leaves.
An airy, rounded leaf is a “sleeping cat,”
And a yellow, spiky leaf is the “beak of a bird from a tropical island.”

I draw pictures of those fantasy animals on a blank page,
And keep them as memories with my daughter, together with the leaves.