It is ink.
The nose is like a butterfly. It smells like sunshine, weeds and rice. Thick as wine, fresh as tea, elegant as orchid. Butterfly longs for the sunshine in early winter and gets lost in the deep blue sky. Butterfly is very excited. Butterflies are intoxicated.
Bean, don't go home yet. Little bean ignored me. Small beans are staring blankly at a new book. I also smelled this ink around adzuki bean that day!
Little bean has a round head, a small head and round eyes, and a ghost like a bean. I call him "Little Bean". His grandmother should be at home. Maybe she has gone to the fields. His father works far away. His mother also works far away. His mother told adzuki bean that they would come back when the chrysanthemums fell.
So, little beans go to see chrysanthemums every day.
There are many chrysanthemums and wild chrysanthemums on the roadside where he goes to school. The villagers also said that wild chrysanthemum was called money chrysanthemum. Money chrysanthemum is not money, small beans know. Why do parents still take money to work everywhere? It's just that he misses mom
Little bean picked one and read it, trying to put it in the book. A layer of yellow powder fell on the core and touched the finger of the little bean. Does he want this yellow powder to stain his book?
Like butterflies, there are book wings to be exhibited. Chinese characters are like beans, Chinese characters are like species, and Chinese characters are newly sown crops. They are so silent in the book, they are so wandering in the book, they are so unpredictable to look at you, infatuated with you and tease you. They attack you with such mellow ink, pull you up and immerse you in the water. You have to work on this ridge, and you have to take off on the wings of this ink fragrance; There is a field of hope that will unfold in front of you, and there is a soaring blue sky waiting for you to bear.
Small beans are still small.
Sentences brewed by sunshine, poems tempered by the earth. Ink is the root of calligraphers, the treasure of painters and the soul of poets. Ink is the essence of land, ink is the essence of land, and ink is the essence of land. Ink, with soil in the middle and soil below, is accumulated and brewed in layers of soil. Waiting for you to work, waiting for you to cultivate, waiting for you to develop. Ink will release the thick ink fragrance to you, and ink will embrace you with the thick ink fragrance.
Bean, you are not greedy for that ink.
Little bean looked up at me and smiled. That smiling face is no different from the wild chrysanthemums on the roadside at sunrise. Chrysanthemums are like beans, beans are like chrysanthemums.
The school is just behind the little bean.
The morning of campus is in your hand, and the night of campus is in the book. At noon, the campus is soaked in ink and chrysanthemums at noon. Open is flying, close is flying; Closing is flying, opening is flying. Ink is like a chrysanthemum, like a butterfly, with so many cores, so many wings and so many leaves.
This is the afternoon of the first week of the new school year. Autumn sun in the wild, I concentrate on ink, and small beans. Little bean didn't put down the chrysanthemum in her hand. Mo Xiang is in the wild. Chrysanthemum flowers are in the wild. Ink is as fragrant as chrysanthemum.
One crop of leaves fell, and another crop of leaves sprouted; The leaves of one crop germinate and the leaves of another crop fall. In fact, the leaves did not fall. Together with butterfly-like ink, they babble on another branch, fly on a higher branch and sing on a farther branch.
Where is the chrysanthemum? So is chrysanthemum.
Ink is as fragrant as chrysanthemum, and autumn is crisp.
Mom, when will you come back?