Your pale fingertips touched my temple, and I couldn't help grabbing your skirt as I did when I was a child. Oh, mother, in order to keep your fading figure, although the morning light has cut my dream into wisps of smoke, I still dare not open my eyes for a long time. I still cherish that bright red scarf, for fear that washing it will make it lose your unique warmth. Isn't the running water of the years just as ruthless? I'm afraid my memory will fade, too How can I easily open its screen? I cried to you for a thorn, and now I dare not moan with a crown of thorns.
Short poem 2:
Mother is spring, the warmest season in the world. Everything wakes up and is full of vitality everywhere. Mother is rain and dew, the purest water source in the world. Unknown, nourishing the flowers of the motherland. Mother is sunshine, the brightest light in the world. Warm and warm, it illuminates every corner of the world. Mother is mother, which is the noblest occupation in the world. As warm as spring, as pure as rain and dew, as bright as sunshine.
Short poem 3:
Turn on the tap and wash the white rice with a blue porcelain bowl. Blowing a breath to test the water, the rice grains flashed in the center of the vortex like it had been some time. On my left, some tomatoes are red (very red), echoing the afterglow of the sunset outside the window. A handful of cress woke up from the emerald dream and waved goodbye to the simple potatoes on the edge of the vegetable basket. Soon the kitchen was filled with the smell of cooking, and the whole family sat together, sharing fresh and tender fish and moderately hard rice. The halo of the wall lamp pushed the night away like the scene of my mother running a few years ago. She left these subtle details and the blood of her ancestors flowing through her veins, but they are everywhere and will be passed down all the time.