I)
The osmanthus tree fell down overnight. The hibiscus flowers in October and the pale-faced vegetation set each other off in interest, each with an abrupt color, and followed autumn into the eyebrows of the years.
The autumn wind has been running, tearing the fragrance of the green fields and stirring the wild Feng Dan. Some bright colors, it hurts, smile when you love.
Old pumpkins and old plum pods, hanging quietly on withered vines, covered the scars with frost and precipitated the fragrance of the soul. A few old loofahs, hanging on the climbing seedlings, swaying in the wind, and some green memories wake up occasionally, as if they had just sprouted. In the small details, they open small yellow flowers and smile.
Autumn, falling in love, has sadness, across the eyebrows of the years, a drop of dew, flowing out of the eyes, cold bones, staying at the tip of the grass, glowing with starlight indifference.
Reed flowers turn into snow, which falls with the wind and fills the air with smoke. Fall on the scroll, white hair cream. You are pale when you fall into a line of poetry. I have long hair, standing on the banks of clouds and water, standing in a scene of cool thin in autumn.
Yellow leaves fall from time to time, abandoning the last remaining ultimate strength of character, waiting for the dust to be buried. The neem tree, whose branches are full of small fruits, wobbles and is as lovely as an elf. When I relax, I will string it into a wind chime.
When the eyes are cut in autumn and the wind blows, some thoughts sprout.
2)
Roll down the bamboo curtain to cover the bleak outside the window.
At this time, leaves fall like rain, and in autumn, they become lonely poems.
I just want to press the vegetation into the text, regardless of spring and autumn, without sadness, let it grow and blossom and fall at will, which is natural and unusual. Alas, people are too sentimental and used to imposing their inner joys and sorrows on flowers and plants, so there are too many poems that hurt the autumn and the moon.
When writing poetry, we usually take scenery as the theme. Tired and disappointed, I borrowed a few grains of rain and fell into endless loneliness.
Falling in love, in the autumn eyebrows, mottled tears, teasing romance.
When it comes to the apathy of the world, the woman looking at the window reveals long-lost sadness, and the lost heart in the years is in a daze in Leng Qingqiu. A cool breeze blew my clothes, and Gui Xiang hit me in the chest. When I closed the window, I suddenly saw a man standing in the fallen leaves, wearing love in the moonlight.
Another gust of wind blew through the wall of time, and everything inside and outside the wall was cold and warm.
There are traces of time. In the long time when I grow up and get old, I comb my long hair with breeze, make my face look beautiful with green water, and brush my sideburns with bonus. Although I am very quiet, I have played all the years of lovesickness.
Rain line, until autumn eyebrow, clear tears, soaked a sad autumn word.
Once, I met a young man with a warm smile and tasted the taste of love. At that time, my eyes shone with clean and pure brilliance. Nowadays, the prosperity is exhausted, the autumn ink is exhausted, and the shoulders are frosted.
(3)
Gradually autumn rings, floating smoke and cold rain leaves fall.
A few more steps, and you will see the oldest camphor tree. Thousands of years of green, thousands of years of simplicity, thousands of years of fragrance, with these thousands of years of waiting, long-term feelings will also have footnotes. A touch of green in recent years is an auspicious time and can last forever.
In the autumn field, a few edelweiss, holding together, swaying, occasionally, fly away one or two. There are roses and one or two delicate branches. A henna, dripping with blood, is waiting for some mulberry leaves, wrapped in the delicate fingertips of the girl. Grandma sat in my dream, smiling peacefully, and slowly wrapped my fingernails. I waited with joy and dyed Dan with two fingers.
Time fell asleep, but I gradually developed my grandmother's quiet temperament.
The cooked lily porridge is very waxy. The lily dug from the field covered with yellow leaves smells of earth and is whiter than my poem.
Don't talk, sit in the autumn wind in October and start a long miss.
All the sensory organs cling to everything in nature seamlessly, including tiny sadness, sobbing parting and kind breathing. Then, there is the familiar cough, which comes from memory and gives birth to a lot of worries.
Missing, jointing in time, touching love with a moment.
Falling in love, in the autumn eyebrows, tangled with many memories, living with ordinary hearts. In my arms, some sleeping poems were caught by the autumn wind, revealing three or two sentences, cool thin was melancholy.
(Photo: An Ruozhu)