So shy, blooming like a lotus can be so calm, and dew does not stick to mud. In order to get close to you, frogs stand on the lotus leaves in circles on the green film you spread out. Frogs croak with your songs, thus standing in a beautiful picture with the water in the pond.
Wheat?
In my father's June, the fields were golden and sometimes rolled up line by line. I have smelled the rough waves. The surging wheat fragrance is when the wheat blooms. The latent attractive heart is unobtrusive and lacks beauty and beauty.
However, just like my father, brilliant wheat is covered with yellow dignity, which is a mature force. What I see is the dazzling wheat awn. Perhaps it is the expansion of the seeds when they are buried, through the layers of soil, standing on my father's broad shoulders and looking over, it is a golden ocean. My father's years are like this, bringing people a yearning, that curved sickle. It's my father's hunchback.