No matter where I am, no matter where I am, I can't help thinking of you, my father, often in the endless fields. When I think of you, my father, I will think of the endless wheat field.
Think of the wheat waves blown by the wind, from the green in spring to the golden in autumn, from the green waves to the golden harvest scene. I heard my father's voice and smelled his body fragrance. There is a faint scent of wheat flowers in the smoke, and sweat wraps the fragrance of friendly hometown soil.
My father had to work harder when I was very young. He may buy me snacks or my favorite toys to buy clothes. So my father had to give up smoking and drinking, scrimp and save, and be hard on himself. However, my father didn't complain about anything. My father would still laugh happily, lift me high and make me giggle.
Most of the time, my father spent a few days calculating the mature wheat, planning my tuition, my flowered skirt, my fairy tale book, my book, my pencil eraser and daily necessities at home. ...
In fact, I really didn't understand at that time. When he saw what others had, he went home and asked his father for it, because he knew that his father had to go to his land and ask for his wheat. My father, my honest father, my honest and loyal father. He is very dedicated and hardworking. He is writing a long prose poem with his own sweat and unique pen and ink.
I remember, in spring, my friends and I rolled around and played in the green wheat fields. The green wheat seedlings are green in the spring sunshine, just like the green devil in grandma's story, which makes people itch.
Father always likes to light a cigarette and sit on the head of the wheat field. As soon as the fireworks went out and lit up, frogs croaked far and near, and birds circled on the top of the wheat field. Father is talking to his wheat silently. My father often said to me: wheat is also emotional and understands people's minds. Look how well our wheat grows. Hehe, it's because I often chat with them.
Father said, whether people or plants include everything, as long as you are good to them, they will be good to you. Heaven and earth, all sentient beings are sentient beings, all of whom are human beings. Know how to be grateful, know how to repay, and know how to love everything. Kindness is the foundation of the world.
When I said these words, my father was in the wheat field, facing the waves of wheat blown by the wind. My father is in the wheat field, just like in the ocean of life. My father said to me with a smile while he was busy.
I like to stand in the wheat field and watch my father work in the field. I always thought, Lang Mai, that you were a prose poem written by your father, and I always believed that. Although, my father's education is not high, he did not read Tang poetry and Song poetry carefully. What's more, I haven't read several essays or masterpieces. However, my father used his cocoon-covered hands, his farming machinery, his sweat and hard work, and his solid brushwork to write his father's prose poems.
Oh, maybe in the morning, maybe at night. Facing the sunrise, the stars and the moon. My father just used one pair of hands, led the oxen and pulled the plowshare, and worked on the dark land. The cuckoo's cry was heard in the distance, and Cleisthenes, a cow, responded nearby.
The streams are gurgling, the green hills are lingering, and wild flowers and weeds can be seen everywhere in the fields. Father also likes the wild flowers blown by the wind, just like the flowing tassels in Tsing Yi on the stage, which are charming and fragrant. Then, I yelled at him: Today, I drank the celebration wine, and I never stopped swearing. ...
I often stand in the fields. As if suddenly, I would see my father hunched over and working behind him. Lines of words were sown on the land dug out by the plow. After wind and rain, after various climate considerations. Characters germinate, take root, break ground and grow seedlings.
Look, it's also the sky and the earth, a piece of green is sultry, green is surging, and green is intoxicated. It has a strong vitality and a beautiful rhythm that shocks the soul. I often think that it is the prose poem written by my father. There is no discipline, no attention to level, but it is handy and natural, and no one can compare it.
Every word, every sentence, is so simple, so unpretentious and so lyrical. Very free and easy, full of the simplicity and simplicity of a farmer. Plain and unpretentious. The flowing water and the words rooted in the land are vivid, flaunting the duty of a farmer and waving an unpretentious bamboo slip of an ordinary person.
I grew up watching my father's prose poems. In fact, I was very young at that time, and I didn't know my father's hardships and difficulties. I don't know how the food came from, nor how the clothes and shoes came from.
I am sitting in the bright classroom, but my heart is swimming. I think about the small fish and shrimp in the river, the flowers and wild fruits in front of the mountain and behind the mountain. I want to dig out the eggs under the eaves. I want to pick the fruits from the trees and go fishing for small fish and shrimp by the river.
I always can't finish the teacher's homework on time. I always want to write new words with fewer lines. When I recite the text, I always can't recite it completely. I dictate new words, and they always know me, but I always can't.
When I skipped class, I went to play by the river. At that time, the river seemed to have magic. I can't wait to stay by the river and live on the grass all the time. One day, however, I went to the wheat field and asked my father for a box of colored pens. I had a bad report card in my hand, and I didn't want my father to see it, so I tore it up in the wind.
It's good to remember the sunset. The sunset dyed the blue sky red. There are a few flaming clouds floating on the western horizon, and the burning sun is still baking the fields. The wind blew the wheat waves and rolled out hot air, and the whole field was like a steamer. In the scorching fields, even at dusk, the heat wave is still rolling.
I saw my father bending down to harvest wheat. Sweat flowed down my father's neck, and my face was like a stream, winding freely on my face. Flying dust and sweat, my father's face is already the color of the mountain, dark. Mud rub together, father's face is criss-crossing buildings.
The wind blows the wheat waves, and the golden wheat waves are like a golden ocean. Father is harvesting wheat in the scorching sun, with his back like a mountain ridge and his figure like an indomitable mountain. The mountains are lingering in the distance, and the villages are faint. Unexpectedly, I could see the smoke curling through my father's bent waist and hear pieces of wheat ears. Oh, the willingness and pride of golden wheat falling in my father's arms.
Suddenly, I saw the sweat dripping from my father, crystal clear in the sunset, enough to concentrate the whole wheat field into that sweat water and drown the whole year in that sweat water.
Everything was oblivious, and my father couldn't take care of wiping the sweat, and my father couldn't take care of standing up straight. Father is bent over and busy working hard. His head almost kissed the ear of wheat, which pierced his father's face and hands, and the sun scorched his back ... At that moment, I suddenly felt that my father was a prose poem. Father is a field in which he expresses himself. In his heart, in the vast world, he is meticulous and diligent with his own hands. He wrote about his long life, life.
Despite the scorching sun, despite fatigue and busyness. However, my father is so happy, because in my father's words, rice is on my lips. A year's hard work, the final sprint, must not let the harvested fruit suffer losses. Grab the harvest, grab it before the rain, grab it before the season, and you can't delay a minute.
Oh, it was from that day on that I never skipped class again; That is, from that day on, I never wasted a grain; That is, from that day on, I began to read my father's prose poems.
From this, I read out my father's difficulties; Thinking of my father's hard work; Read my father's mind. From it, I also read my father's hard work, his feelings, his diligence and his love.
Father, my father who works in the field. From youth to maturity to dusk, from sunrise to sunset, from spring to autumn. Father, a dutiful father, works at sunrise and stays at sunset, waiting in his field. Farming, sowing, irrigation ... Observe seed germination, emergence, tillering, jointing, heading, flowering and filling every day. ...
Now, my father has left us for several years and went to that distant paradise. However, I know that my father will still guard his fields and his wheat fields. From small to large, whenever. I can always find my father in the wheat field, because it belongs to my father, and my father's life's hard work and enthusiasm are left there.
Wheat waves from the wind, green wheat waves like blue, golden wheat waves like the ocean. That year, every season's wheat wave belonged to my father. It was a prose poem written by my father, which was imbued with the vicissitudes of time and blended with hard sweat and simplicity.
My father is ordinary and particularly great. Most importantly, he left me enough prose poems to read for a lifetime. I will praise you, my father, my dear father.