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秋天翻到这一页
凉风把暑假翻过去的时候，校园的银杏刚刚绿完。
跑道比夏天安静，只有我们的影子，被斜阳拉得越来越长。
落叶不是一片一片落的，是三三两两落的，像谁从书上撕下的句子。
我捡起一片夹进字典，那个枫字忽然有了自己的边框。
凉风每天下午从窗口经过，翻一翻桌上的卷子，像催谁早点出发。
班主任说，秋天是读书的季节，后半句他没有说出口——
读书的季节，也是想远方的季节。
大雁排成人字往南走，在天上写了一行诗，又随手擦掉。
我看它们消失到云的边上，心也跟着被带走了半截。
远方啊，你是什么样子，有没有我们河滩那样的芦苇花，白成一片。
芦苇花在凉风里点头，像河边老奶奶的白发，朝我们挥手。
田头的稻子弯下腰，不是忧愁，是话太多，压不住了。
我踩着秋天走路，脚步很轻，怕吵醒脚下的落叶。
每一片落叶都是秋天寄给大地的信，没封口，字迹卷了边。
我也想给远方写一封信，拿起笔，又不知道说什么好。
就写校园的银杏吧，写凉风掀起我的衣角，
写最后一节课后的夕阳，铺在屋顶上，红得像崭新的本子。
写我这个年纪，忽然读懂了古诗里的某些句子，
古人说秋天容易让人伤感，我却觉得它像一本刚拆封的书。
远方啊你别催我，我正带着秋天的祝福往你那里走。
等落叶落完，冬天就到了，我也会长高一个头。
凉风把桂花香塞进我的书包，整个下午教室都是甜的。
桂花小得不如一粒米，香气却大得过整个操场。
女孩把桂花按进橡皮盒，男孩把落叶踢成小山，再一头扎进去。
没有人说悲伤，秋天不是用来悲伤的，秋天是用来收藏的。
把夏天的蝉声收进贝壳，把夏天的星光收进眼睛。
把没来得及说的话收进落叶，等春天再念一遍。
我站在秋天的中央，一手拿着落叶，一手指着远方。
凉风穿过我，像一页纸穿过一本书。
秋天翻到这一页，我跟着它，一页一页往下翻。
Autumn Has Turned to This Page
When the cool wind turned past the summer vacation, the ginkgo in our schoolyard had just finished its green.
The running track was quieter than in summer; only our shadows stretched longer and longer under the slanting sun.
The fallen leaves do not fall one by one; they fall in twos and threes, like sentences torn out of a book.
I pick one up and press it into my dictionary, and the character for maple suddenly has its own frame.
The cool wind passes the window every afternoon, turning the papers on the desk, as if urging someone to start out early.
The homeroom teacher says autumn is the season for reading; he does not say the second half out loud——
the season for reading is also the season for thinking of distant places.
The wild geese fly south in a wedge, writing one line of verse across the sky, then wiping it away.
I watch them vanish at the rim of the clouds, and my heart goes half away with them.
Distant places, what do you look like; do you have reed flowers like the ones on our riverbank, white all over?
The reed flowers nod in the cool wind, like the gray hair of the grandmother by the river, waving at us.
The rice at the field edge bends down, not from sorrow, but because it has too many words to hold.
I walk on autumn with light steps, afraid of waking the fallen leaves underfoot.
Every fallen leaf is a letter autumn sends to the earth, unsealed, the handwriting curling at the edges.
I want to write a letter to distant places too, yet when I lift the pen I do not know what to say.
Write about the ginkgo in the schoolyard, write about the cool wind lifting the hem of my shirt,
write about the sunset after the last bell, spread over the rooftops, red as a brand-new copybook,
write about how at my age I suddenly understand certain lines of the old poems.
The ancients said autumn easily makes one sad; I feel it is more like a book still in its wrapping.
Distant places, do not hurry me; I am walking toward you carrying the blessing of autumn.
When the fallen leaves have finished falling, winter arrives, and I will have grown a head taller.
The cool wind stuffs the scent of osmanthus into my schoolbag, and the whole classroom stays sweet all afternoon.
Osmanthus flowers are smaller than grains of rice, yet their fragrance is bigger than the whole playground.
The girls press osmanthus into eraser boxes; the boys kick the leaves into small hills and dive headfirst into them.
Nobody speaks of sadness; autumn is not for sadness, autumn is for storing things away.
Store the cicada sound of summer inside a shell, store the starlight of summer inside your eyes.
Store the words you had no time to say inside a fallen leaf, and wait until spring to read them again.
I stand in the middle of autumn, one hand holding a fallen leaf, one hand pointing toward distant places.
The cool wind passes through me the way one page passes through a book.
Autumn has turned to this page, and I follow it, turning page after page.
秋天的半封信
你转学那年，秋天刚开头，信我只写了一半。
一半留在抽屉里，和一片落叶住在一起。
落叶是那天放学捡的，凉风正好从肩头擦过去，它就从树上下来了。
我没有拦它，就像那天没有拦你妈的出租车。
你在信纸背面写过半句，说新学校门口有一条河。
河的那边是不是远方，我查过地图，查不到你的窗户。
凉风每个星期来一次，翻抽屉，翻到那半封信就停住。
它替我读，声音压得很低，怕隔壁班的同学听见。
凉风也捎回你的话，你说南方的河不结冰，落叶落进水里就沉了。
我说我们这里的落叶都堆在墙根，老猫一整个冬天睡在上头。
信里没写想念，只写银杏今年黄得早，才十月就落了满地。
只写值日表上还有你的名字，卫生委员一直没划掉。
只写最后一排靠窗的座位，空着，像秋天缺了一角。
落叶在信纸上待了一个月，绿色退干净，筋络亮起来。
我想，你那边应该也落叶了，南方的叶子落得慢，颜色也淡。
远方的邮局离你近，离我远，这半封信就一直没贴邮票。
我不着急。有些话凉风会替我送到，它去过你那条河。
上回梦见你，也是在秋天，你站在河对岸，手里举着一片叶子。
叶子很大，像一面小旗，你挥一挥，没出声。
醒来我想，梦里的凉风，一定是从你那边吹过来的。
等入冬我把信补完，就两行：银杏又绿之前，你要长高。
落叶会年年回来，像值日生，像没划掉的名字。
凉风会年年路过我的窗口，顺便往南多走几里。
远方不远，远不过一片叶子落下来的时间。
那半封信现在还躺在抽屉里，落叶比刚捡时更轻了。
它把自己读完了，剩下的，交给凉风。
Half a Letter Written in Autumn
The year you transferred, autumn had just begun, and I wrote only half a letter.
The half stayed in the drawer, living together with one fallen leaf.
I picked the leaf up after school that day; the cool wind was brushing past my shoulder when it came down from the tree.
I did not stop it, the way I did not stop the taxi of your mother that day.
On the back of the letter paper you wrote half a sentence, saying a river ran by the gate of your new school.
Whether the far side of the river is distant places, I checked the map and could not find your window.
The cool wind comes once a week, opens the drawer, and stops when it reaches that half letter.
It reads for me in a very low voice, afraid the students in the next class might hear.
The cool wind also brings your words back; you say the river in the south never freezes, and a leaf that falls into the water sinks.
I say the fallen leaves here pile up against the wall, and the old cat sleeps on them the whole winter.
The letter does not say I miss you; it only says the ginkgo turned yellow early this year, covering the ground by October.
It only says your name is still on the duty roster, and the cleaning monitor never crossed it out.
It only says the empty seat by the window in the last row looks like autumn with one corner missing.
The fallen leaf has lain on the letter paper for a month; its green has faded clean and its veins have grown bright.
I think leaves must be falling where you are; southern leaves fall slowly, and their colors are paler.
The post office of distant places is near you and far from me, so the half letter never got a stamp.
I am not in a hurry. The cool wind will deliver some words for me; it has been to your river.
Last time I dreamed of you it was autumn too; you stood on the far bank holding up a leaf.
The leaf was large, like a small flag; you waved it once, without a sound.
Waking up, I thought the wind in that dream must have blown all the way from your side.
When winter sets in I will finish the letter, in just two lines: before the ginkgo turns green again, you must grow taller.
Fallen leaves come back every year, like a student on duty, like a name never crossed out.
The cool wind passes my window every year, walking a few miles farther south along the way.
Distant places are not far; no farther than the time one leaf takes to fall.
The half letter still lies in the drawer now, and the leaf is lighter than when I picked it up.
It has finished reading itself; it hands the rest over to the cool wind.
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