It's time for flowers to bloom. Plum blossoms in January and a few snowflakes are saying common words.
In a snowy field, a few wisps of wind keep winter tight, so I rolled on the riverside.
My grandmother was there, and there were several loofah seedlings. Some memories woke up.
It seemed that I was sixteen years old, so young, so many.
I rolled down the window, and then I rolled on the spinning float
just like grandma, and those stories danced in front of my eyes
Grandma sat on the futon, and I sat in her arms
Snowflakes came in from the crack of the door from time to time, and when I strung them into wind chimes
When the wind blew, my thoughts began to sprout green.
Second,
Press the time into the window. When I grow up, the breeze knows how to comb my long hair.
The clear rain will use green sleeves to slim my waist.
Now, my eyes are shining with clean light.
I see a teenager sitting opposite the window. His teeth are white and his smile is clear.
A few more steps, you can see a big banyan tree at the entrance of the village.
A few velvet flowers, hugging each other and swinging.
In my dream, grandma didn't talk, but only laughed quietly.
There were a few dried firewood in the fields of Jilong before peas, loofah, Schizonepeta and henna were planted.
They gathered at the east end of the thatched house. Pull open a thin layer of snow
The spinach dug out of the snow is greener than the poem I wrote
Third,
I don't want to talk, sitting in the snow in January
Grandma abandoned me and closed the door
I missed it with blood and began to lie down
I used my eyes, lips, hair, hands and heart. It's the squeaky singing of the spinning wheel.
These sounds haunt my grandmother all my life, and I'm a little tired.
In the breezy years, I began to jointing in time.
I often sat opposite a river and lingered at a certain moment.
I rushed in front of the swallows, built nests under the eaves.
I was driven out of the bend by a thin layer of snow.
The straw house is green
clusters of breezes are green, and grandma's fields are green
The poem that I slept soundly in my arms is also green
.......................................................................................................................... Everyone has a mottled life.
I embroidered it with a wet care. A pile of mud walls and a bundle of firewood are alive, and a window of breeze is alive.
They blinked, waiting for me to write them into the day and write a story.
The bees woke up one morning. I carry a basket of warm memories and bask in the sun in the small yard.
The more golden days are screened, the more bright they are.