As the temperature gradually drops, I'm discovering what autumn feels like in this part of the world.
I've grown quite fond of watching the willow branches sway in the breeze. It is through them that I get to see the shape of the wind. And somehow, their gentle movement stirs ripples of childhood memories — the magnolia tree I grew up with, and the familiar scent of its blossoms.
On a sunny November morning, beneath the willow, I painted a little piece of spring from memory.
Magnolia blossoms reaching toward the sun, petals unfolding against the blue — like a poem written on the canvas of the sky.
In autumn, we long for spring.
In spring, we find ourselves missing autumn.
透过柳枝，窥见风的形状，
也在摇曳间，荡起童年的涟漪。
记忆深处，一树玉兰花香。
玉兰向晴，蓝天作笺，
是写给天空的诗。
在秋天怀念春天，
在春天想念秋天。
