Secondly, "Reed Swamp" has been growing since it came out. It didn't realize the importance of walking upright, taking risks flexibly and "swinging" until its head turned white.
Three. Isolated island The remote island lives in boundless waves. It can't sing Tao Yuanming's pastoral poems, but only tells impermanent stories.
Fourth, "Son of Nature" looks at the flowers and trees on the ground when working on the earth under the sky, and looks at the birds in the sky when tired.
V. "Harvest" In May, the golden fruit of a mango tree fell three or five times, and there were seven or eight pockets in the arm, two or three.
When I grow up, I see more and more clearly that the sky can't compare with the land. The older you get, the lower your head will be. Commentary: "The older you get, the lower your head will be.". The classic language seems bland, without gorgeous poems, but it hides philosophy. This poem was written by Mr. Zeng Xin, a poet, after he experienced life training and deeply felt life. I admire Mr. Zeng Xin's insight into life. I put down my work and stared at the poem on the computer screen for a long time. I read it and praised it again and again. Good poem! Thank you, Mr. Zeng Xin!
Seven, "Gulangyu" is naturally a master of agriculture. She picked up some strange stones from the goddess of mending heaven, moved exotic flowers and herbs from Shennongjia, and made a bonsai on the rippling Lujiang River.
Eight, "Leaves" thought of walking underground in a tree, and when I got underground, I thought of living in a tree. No matter how hard I struggled, I could never get up again.
Nine, "Tide" danced blue and undressed on the beach net, and went back with many vicissitudes.
X. the negative film in the heart of the "bottom film" cannot be washed out in the photo studio. It is washed out with emotion and memory-clear and three-dimensional.
Eleven, "chopsticks" in the laughter at the banquet pulled out a frozen blood from the wound.
Twelve, "waves" jump out of the mother's arms and chase the wind and rain. Giggling, I suddenly bumped into the foot of the mountain and burst into tears.
Thirteen, the "ball" jumps-jumps-billions of eyeballs follow and shake a "ball" flying from outer space from the old hemisphere to the western hemisphere.
Fourteen, "The Magic of Poetry" is invisible, colorless and silent. It dares to talk with the 72-year-old Sun Shengda, and the water sings and the stone jumps, and the pen thunders.
Fifteen, the "sand" by the sea, no one cares about me, even when they step on their feet, they don't understand my eyes-they understand the sea and the universe.