Shi Xu

Class of Foreign Languages ​​College 2011 Liu Jiaoyang

When returning to Beijing from the north, the scenery outside the train window from winter to spring is the mood of going home.

Writing a text about Beijing, stopping at the sentence "The sudden rise of wind and the wrinkled spring water", as if the fingertips can still touch the Qingming Festival.

I remembered saying goodbye to my friend before leaving, and said, "When I go back, the willow catkins in Beijing should be raised. It's not like here, the willow leaves have not been blown green by the spring breeze."

The ancients said that they would say goodbye when they parted, just like the soft green on their hands, which could make the sorrow of parting longer and further and deeper.

Agoing earlier, I was walking leisurely on the warm and soft streets of Beijing, and the green willow branches were hanging soothingly. When I passed by, I greeted me in the wind, just like a reunion of old friends.

I couldn't help but start to sort out the words and sentences about "Liu" in my memory. It is the sadness of "the willow bank, the morning breeze and the waning moon", the clearness of "the morning rain in Weicheng is pouring in the morning, and the green willows in the guest house are fresh in color", and the sorrow of "the red and crisp hands, yellow wine, and the spring scenery of the palace walls and willows in the garden".

is the first poem written when I was a child.

All the origins of spring and poetry should be attributed to the willow.

Only speaking, it comes down to willow catkins.

Hometown is not Beijing, but a small city. To the north is the Central Plains, to the south is the Jiangnan. As the four seasons move, my hometown always stands there, flourishing and withering.

My family lives in the suburbs of my hometown, and there is a row of weeping willows on the street outside the door, so when I was very young, I would point at them and whisper: "The jade is made up into a tall tree, and thousands of green silk ribbons are hanging down..." Even if I can't understand the wonderfulness of "every word is not separated from the willow".

But this does not hinder my love for this poem, just like a catkin blowing into my nostrils that causes a sneeze, it does not hinder my love for willows.

In my memory, the willows in my hometown began to turn green after the Spring Festival. Then one day, I found that Tingting weeping willows had been dressed up properly and smiled freely with the spring breeze.

In a few days, there will be flying catkins all over the city.

I don’t know if it was born at this w88 login. I don’t hate willow catkins as much as others. When I was young, I chased the willow catkins that were patrolling the stone steps of the street corners, approached the steps that I deliberately slowed down, and then stepped out and stepped on a small vortex. It was my favorite game.

I even liked it so much that I wrote the poem for the first w88 login when I was ten years old. The specific words and sentences have long been blurred by age, but I still remember that the pencil stroked across the paper, and there was a scene of a ball of cotton wool gathering and dispersing in front of me.

At that w88 login, I just felt that w88 login was walking very fast, like riding a white horse passing by. As soon as the willows became green, the cicadas began to ring, and then the leaves turned yellow and the grass withered. The first snow that year fell, and the eyes fell.

But at this w88 login, I think about it all, stopping at a certain part of my memory, and I can play it one by one, chewing it inch by one, just like w88 login hitting me, and the pictures waiting in my memory are like lotus blooming and falling. Slow, slow, slow.

Memory cannot withstand flipping. Because the dust of w88 login and space covers it, if it blows away, the willow color on the yellowed paper page is still blue, as if that short moment was deliberately stretched for a long w88 login.

Always feel that everything is like a passing river, and is always pushed by the prehistoric world of w88 login and chased and ran involuntarily. Always feel that the future is unpredictable and that the present is unhappy, and that it can only go to the past to lick the memory.

But every inch of the past is the present and future.

w88 login is the fairest saint and will not slow down any journey.

I was not slow before, but you can see that the catkins rose again in a moment, and my head was blown white when I flew up.

But when I think about it, I always feel that my youth is within reach, but in fact, I get old wherever I am. You see, the seasons are still flourishing and withering, the colors of willows you see are no different from the past, and the flying catkins have filled the city for another year.

They can be youthful from the poems from thousands of years ago to the present, and can continue to play in the street corners from the idle work of childhood. What can you not continue to spend every w88 login of your life calmly and happily?

And one day, they become "slow in the past".