It should be frost leaves, and a deep red emerges from the light yellow and residual green. Looking over it, there is actually a poem on it, "The wind is warm and the leaves are light." I don't know who left it, but before me, someone walked this road and saw this ordinary and extraordinary fallen leaf, so he left his own love poem about time on it.
I have always liked to write poems on fallen leaves. They are natural stationery given to people by trees. You can write on it with a colored pen or carve on it with a pen tip. If written, it is easy to fade and the color is not deep, but it makes the fallen leaves have some bright colors, which makes the fading and blooming on both sides of time form a colorful dialectic. The lettering has no color, but the words are clear, like going deep into the hearts of fallen leaves, and can be preserved for a long time.
The leaves are not big enough to write much. In my impression, what I write most is "If you are well, it will be sunny" and "The spring breeze is ten miles, not as good as you". Our youth is full of enthusiasm in implication, restrained in unrestrained, and the fallen leaves have a touch of arty interest, so it carries a line of poetry, like a grasshopper boat in Shuangxi, waddling through my lush youth.
In fact, the fallen leaf itself is a poem. They should have left the treetops in autumn and been collected in the deep soil in winter, but they stubbornly stayed on the branches. They got inspiration from every storm. They want to finish their poems and tell the branches about the prosperous spring and summer. As a result, they resolutely resisted the erosion of time and blocked the Tiema Glacier, becoming one after another sonorous frontier poems and military poems, guarding and supporting one after another touching and graceful poems with loneliness.
I picked up another fallen leaf. It is gray, and no one will notice it. I just picked it up by hand. But I will carve two lines of spring poems on it, two lines of poems that can extend the green grass like flowers. It will be given a new name, memory and fresh life by me. When it returns to the earth again, it will return with rare poetry in its roots. Next year, when I go this way and walk under this tree, it will think of these past events, and then fall down and wait for me to pick them up-as if I had completed a silent and meaningful agreement, and carved a poem for it, carved it into life and carved it next to the Sansheng Stone.