Looking for Music: Yi Tian's Poems of Shanxi Entering Spring

Zhu Ziqing's spring is looking forward to, looking forward to, the east wind is coming, and the pace of spring is approaching. Everything looked like I had just woken up, and I opened my eyes with joy. The mountains are moist, the water is long, and the sun is blushing. The grass crawled out of the soil, tender and green. In the garden and in the field, look, there are many such trees. Sit, lie down, roll twice, kick a few balls, run a few laps, grab a few laps. The wind is quiet and the grass is soft. Peach trees, apricot trees and pear trees are all in full bloom, and you won't let me or I won't let you. Red is like fire, pink is like chardonnay and white is like snow. With the fragrance of flowers, when I close my eyes, the trees seem to be full of peaches, Xinger and pears. Hundreds of bees are buzzing under the flowers, and butterflies of different sizes are flying around. Wildflowers are everywhere: miscellaneous, named and unnamed, scattered in the grass, like eyes, like stars, still flashing. "Blowing your face is not cold, willow trees become a shade", yes, like a mother's hand touching you. The wind brought the smell of new ploughing, mixed with the smell of grass, and the fragrance of various flowers, all brewing in the slightly humid air. Birds nest in flowers and leaves. They are very happy. Calling friends proudly showed off her crisp voice and sang melodious songs, which set each other off in harmony with the light wind and flowing water. The piccolo of the shepherd boy on the cow's back rang all day at this time. Rain is the most common and lasts for three or two days. Don't be annoyed, you see, it is like cow hair, like a needle, like a filament, densely woven into a diagonal, and there is a thin layer of smoke on the roof. The leaves are bright green, and the grass is green enough to stare at your eyes. At night, the lights turned on, and a little dim light set off a quiet and peaceful night. Going to the countryside, on the path, by the stone bridge, people are walking slowly with umbrellas; There are also farmers working in the fields, wearing hemp fiber and hats. Their thatched cottage is sparse and silent in the rain. There are more kites in the sky and more children on the ground. In urban and rural areas, every household, old and young, came out one by one, as if in a hurry. Relax, be full of energy and do your own thing. "A year's plan lies in spring"; At the beginning, there is plenty of time and hope. Spring is like a newborn doll. It's new from head to toe and still growing. Spring is like a little girl, dressed up and walking with a smile. Spring is like a strong young man with iron arms, waist and feet. He led us forward. Looking back on the past in spring (Zhang Xiaofeng, Taiwan Province) Spring must be like this: from the foot of the green hill, a handful of snow can no longer hold, with a splash, a cold face becomes a painted face, and a song is sung from the clouds to the foothills, from the foothills to the low and deserted villages, to the hedgerows, to the yellow webbed ducklings, and to softness. So charming, so sensitive, but so chaotic. A thunder can make clouds cry all over the sky for no reason, and a cuckoo cry can make a city full of azaleas. When a gust of wind rises, every willow tree will sing a white, empty, inexplicable and inaudible fly. Every fly is a semicolon of a willow. Anyway, spring is so unreasonable and illogical, but it can still be good and calm. Spring is destined to be like this: an old root clings to the dead stem of a pool full of dark leaves and flowers, and the roof beams of thousands of families in the north gently hold up a small empty bird's nest after being disturbed by snow and wind. Then, suddenly, one day, peach blossoms captured the water profiles of all the mountain villages. Willow trees control the royal ditch and the folk river head-the spring water is like Julian Waghann with a clear-cut flag, which is beautiful because of long-term pious prayer. As for the name of spring, there must have been such a story: before the Book of Songs, before the Historical Records and before the characterization of Cang Xie, a lamb suddenly felt juicy when eating grass, a child suddenly felt soaring when flying a kite, a pair of legs suffering from wind pain suddenly felt comfortable, and Qian Qian suddenly felt the blood of water when washing yarn by the river. Birds can start measuring the sky again. Some are responsible for measuring the blue of the sky, some are responsible for measuring the transparency of the sky, and some are responsible for measuring the height and depth of the sky with those wings. Not all birds are excellent mathematicians. They chattered and counted, looked around, and finally dared not publish statistics. As for all the flowers, they have been given to the butterfly to count. Give all the pistils to the bees for cataloging. All the trees were ruined by the wind. Leave the wind to the old wind chimes in front of the eaves to remember and inquire one by one. Spring must be like this, or, somewhere, is it still like this? Through the black forest of chimneys, I want to visit the spring wandering in the distant years. .