That day, I looked up from the messy information on the table and glanced at the desk calendar on the corner of the table. A few bright red words jumped in: Today is the beginning of spring. Is it spring from today? The heart has been imprisoned for a long time in the cold winter, and it is still unable to tolerate the arrival of spring.
Look out the window, there is no cloud in the gray sky. Maybe you can find "a cloud made of rain" under other skies, but you can't find it outside my window.
Where can I find the vitality and spring! Outside the window, there are no jasmine flowers or lilacs, just rows of buildings and speeding traffic... Maybe the tender yellow grass at the foot of the wall will tell the message of spring. However, I am very disappointed. The brick walls and cement-paved floors have killed the vitality of the grass.
In my impression, spring is full of poetry. "Sentimental peonies contain spring tears, and powerless roses lie on dawn branches." "The garden is full of spring scenery and cannot be contained. A branch of red apricot comes out of the wall." Whether it is quiet and virtuous, or passionate and unrestrained, look, the poetry of spring is in each golden stamen, "Sneaking into the night with the wind, moistening things silently" "There are four hundred and eighty temples in the Southern Dynasty, and there are many towers in the mist and rain". Listen, the poetry of spring flows in the drizzle, flowing into the blank space deep in our hearts. The poetry of spring is everywhere in the mountain springs, in the streams, on the floating clouds, among the tender grass, exuding an alluring fragrance.
When I was a child in the countryside, the atmosphere of spring was very strong. The first thing I felt was the fresh earthy smell in the air. It is the most original and eternal fragrance in the world. The grass emerged from the soft soil and poked its head to inquire about the news of spring. The river began to thaw, leaving uncivilized jagged ice on its banks. Small fish began to move in the water, and the hillside gradually turned from yellow to light green. There are also early-blooming orchids, looking up in the lazy spring breeze.
I remembered a song I sang when I was a teenager, "Where is the Spring": "Spring is in the eyes of children. There are red flowers here, green grass here, and the little orioles that can sing. ..." Our children can also sing this song now, but when I tell them about the butterflies flying in the flowers and the horses galloping on the grassland, they will ask: "Is that spring?"
Spring is getting closer and closer to us, but I feel that spring is getting further and further away from us. The concrete floors of the city cannot keep the footsteps of spring, and the high-rise buildings of the city cannot tolerate the squeeze of spring.
It is not difficult to leave a small piece of land and spiritual space for spring. Why can’t we do it?