Appreciation of Prose Praising Motherly Love

Appreciation of Prose Praising Motherly Love 1 Mother is a rural poem, and the countryside is a mother's poem.

Sometimes, one or two swallows flying home become the level of poetry in her eyes; In the paddy field with water, there is a chant, which is the rhyme of her poem; When I am in a good mood, a breeze blows across my brow, a willow branch sweeps across my forehead, and a bug sings in the garden, all of which are the rhythms in her poems.

As long as I can remember, she told me that I grew up not in her arms, but under the eyes of the villagers. As soon as I was born, I was concerned by the villagers. A sound? With a handle? , a word? Fat man? It is the most cordial courtesy of the villagers to me as a newcomer. Mother said, I ran from the head of the village to the end of the village, all over the village, to the kang of Uncle Zhang's house, and fell a little smelly on it. I have been to Wang's family's watermelon field and secretly picked her rich fruit. I have also witnessed the vicissitudes of a millstone in Li Shu's house, imitated the way the big hen in Aunt Zhang's house walked, and even climbed over the wall and knocked down the haystack. But every time, I swaggered away peacefully in their hypocritical and angry eyes. My mother is really a great poet, so poetically speaking, I grew up under the eyes of the villagers, which made me emerge like bamboo in spring and enriched everyone's horizons. She always believes that in the countryside, no matter how far I run, no matter how late I play, as long as I don't escape from the embrace of the countryside, I will never have to worry.

You must have never seen the confrontation between insects and onions in the garden. Mother likes to describe onion as a woman dressed simply, standing gracefully in the field with a white oiled paper umbrella. Onion, her mother called her "harmonious grass". Such an indispensable thing for a person can't be accompanied. Therefore, she can plant, raise and care for onions. She must be in a row. In this way, each of them will not be lonely, and the confrontation between the left and right will make them feel lonely day and night, waiting for the clever woman to pick them up. There are cucurbits and pumpkins, eggplant and peppers, sweet potatoes and potatoes, peanuts and lotus flowers, tomatoes and cucumbers, all of which are natural red and green, with high and low levels. This is a eclectic and unique poem.

On summer nights, there are always many bugs barking in the vegetable fields. She said, this is not screaming, this is their singing softly. The grasshopper is playing the erhu, the cricket is playing the piano, the ladybug is playing the guzheng, and the caterpillar is playing the pipa several times. Insects are lively and exultant together, and the piano and harp are harmonious, which is a natural sound that all musicians in the world can't play. I asked my mother strangely, why can't I hear you? My mother touched my head and said, when I grow up, you will naturally hear it.

When I was a child, my sister went to college outside. Every time she writes home, she doesn't use express mail, but chooses ordinary mail according to her mother's request. It's really strange that people want their children's stationery to cross the Qian Shan between lightning and stone fire, cross the world of mortals, and instantly reach their parents' hearts. But she repeatedly asked her sister to use ordinary mail. She said that the slower the letter came, the deeper my thoughts seemed. The deeper I miss you, the letter I receive after a little time can be held in my hand to extract love. If the letter comes too fast, she is afraid that she won't have time to miss or worry, and her sister's absence will suddenly jump into her mind. In this way, she lost her charm and failed to live up to her long-cherished thoughts and deep lovesickness.

I still remember my mother in the field: she said that before the wheat was dyed golden yellow, there were hundreds of winds blowing on the ridge today. I've never heard that the wind really works anywhere before. Fight? To measure; She also said that if rice is described as a woman, women can't lack water. It is the tenderness and warmth of water that makes rice so full and firm. She always believes that every ear of wheat is God's praise for her work, and every grain of millet is God's affirmation for her. Mother is so poetic, but she seldom reads poetry all her life. Only in other places can she sing a word or two affectionately? Who would have thought that our bowl of rice and grain are full of the blood and sweat of farmers? . She sings like a devout pilgrim, humble and holy.

Poetry, poetry will fail one day. Maybe it's exhaustion of inspiration or slow thinking. Later, my mother who stayed in the city with me was seldom so poetic. She just stopped on the balcony and looked at the steel-like modern buildings outside through the glass of security window. I often think that she may be looking for the long-lost swallow, or the bug hiding in a cramped place, or she may be looking for a touch of new green and gold in her memory.

Mother is a poem of the country, and the country is a poem of the mother.

Appreciation of Prose Praising Motherly Love 2- 1

Got a call from my mother. Mother asked, what day is it today? I thought about it for a long time. Mom said, today is your birthday. For more than 30 years, my mother didn't look at the calendar very much, but she never remembered her son's birthday. When I was a child, no matter how bitter it was, my mother always cooked me two eggs as soon as she arrived. Moreover, my mother should free her hands from the busy housework and put them on my head for a long time, so that love can flow all over me.

My son has gone home. I asked my son what day it was today. My son said today is Friday, and there will be no school tomorrow. I asked my wife when she came home. My wife said it was 18 Friday and there was the same song. Even if I don't remember myself, will they remember? Only the mother remembers her son's birthday. Because that unusual day decades ago, the birth of a life was insignificant to others, but it was earth-shattering to a mother.

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Mother hesitated for a long time. She is anxious and indecisive. Finally, she took out a piece of glass. I don't know what she is doing. Mom said, put it in front of your computer, maybe it can block the radiation. This is an ordinary window glass, and the corners are polished as smooth as water by my mother with a grinding wheel. I just remembered that my mother has been asking me about computer radiation for some time.

I sit in front of the computer and write day and night. Mom doesn't know where I heard that computer radiation is harmful to human body. Hurt? Exaggerated by nervousness and worry. And she always felt how careless her son was. Can you imagine how many sleepless nights my mother thought hard before she came up with this? Smart move. . Mother's heart, like a sensitive radar, carefully captures the clues that may hurt her son, and maternal love is everywhere.

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I still remember last winter. Every time I visit my mother, she will put a table full of delicious food. She sat quietly at the table, hoping to see her son gobble it up. However, my current appetite can't satisfy my mother. Mom kept saying, how can you eat so little when writing a book is so hard? Later, I went to my mother's house and found several vats on the balcony. The kimchi in the jar is made for me. While eating, I praised kimchi and tried to make it look like a wolf.

Mom is finally satisfied. Every time she puts kimchi in a big glass bottle for me to take back. Sitting in the car, I put kimchi in my palm and imagined how my white-haired mother happily shuttled between several vats. In that cold season, I also noticed a detail. Every time the glass bottle containing kimchi is wrapped with a towel and covered with a net bag to keep my palms warm. The car took me hundreds of miles from home. Wandering outside, I am no longer a child. But at that moment, I felt like a pickle in my hand, still living in my mother's hand.

Appreciation of Prose Praising Motherly Love 3 In the season of rice and flowers, my mother is washing clothes by the stream in the field. The wind in the village blew to the mother's side and piled up heavy water waves in the bucket where her mother washed clothes. A woman like her mother came to the village field. On a field path, she dug a water gap with a hoe. The fire-like sunshine made the women in the village have nowhere to hide, so they had to take out a cattail leaf fan and sit together in a secluded alley in the village to talk about the hot weather.

When the rice is ripe, the men outside will return to the village. The women who stay in the village will go into the fields, face the summer sunshine and look at the golden rice in the warm breeze. Some women come back smiling, while others are helpless. Mother also sounded the rhythm of harvest with her footsteps. I was raised by rice grains, and my childhood was full of secrets of rice fields. In the season when rice is ripe, I hide these secrets in my mother's dream.

During the rice harvest season, mother took handfuls of rusty sickles from the wall. Mother's finger was once cut by a sharp sickle, bleeding profusely. Finger was cut by sickle, and mother used medicine and gauze to wrap it. Everyone in the village can't escape the bad luck of being scratched by a sickle. Only in this way can the rice in the village be harvested. The harvest season has solidified the busyness and desolation of the years. Only at the entrance of the village can you find the past of your childhood.

In the rice harvest season, my mother cut off grains of rice with a pair of vicissitudes of life's hands and took them back. The burning sun made it hard for people in the village to resist, so they had to go back to a cool place to rest at noon. Summer in the village is very hot, so is the water, even the wind. I regard the rice harvest season as the season of growth, and also as the season when my mother gets old.

Mother, a fragrant rice flower fragrance. When the seedlings in the village gradually mature, when all the life in the village is taken care of by weak and strong women, when the women in the village wash clothes together, when the women in the village stand barefoot at the entrance of the village in summer, when the women in the village are struggling to carry a load of millet, their mother is holding a bumper harvest of food in the village field.

The village has preserved its mother's years. Although many days are full of hardships and poverty, my mother still chooses to quietly bear the ups and downs of life. I know, on my mother's shoulder, the memory of the village is engraved. My childhood was also carried by my mother's shoulders, as well as my dreams. Until one day, I saw my mother put some ointment on her shoulder under the midnight light.

The field is the source of all life in the village. In the season of fragrant rice and flowers, my mother gradually became silent in the wind of the years. When the frog in the field came to his mother, it not only awakened the dreams of many women in the village, but also awakened the dreams of many men in the village. The vast fields are in the hands of village women, growing the joy of harvest and raising the lives and dreams of the whole village.

The croaking of frogs in the summer night has become a sad voice in the village, accompanying my mother every heavy night. Whenever my mother turns on the dim light, it is doomed that my mother will curl up in the silent night and start to take care of the next day's life. I remember when I was a child, my mother always took out a cattail leaf fan, and the frog kept fanning when it rang. My mother often closes the courtyard door in the middle of the night when I am asleep and meditates on the moonlight in front of the window.

In the season when the flowers are fragrant, the cows in the village always bark for a long time. I remember when I was a child, on a hot summer night, my mother said to me: the barking of cattle is an unlucky omen. ? Later, I gradually understood what my mother said. The sound of cows always takes away some old people in the village.

Seasonal cycle, mother also gradually do some men's work in the fields in the village. When my father is not at home, my mother will be busy outside, always running between fields and vegetable fields. Mother persisted in this way, making the poor days colorful. Women in the village are like this, keeping the life in the village in an orderly way. Women are like mountains. In the season, the dust of the day accumulates. In those windy days, the women in the village will shout loudly in the fields in the village. Women in the field, like men, will walk out of the long-standing voice of the village during the rice harvest season. This voice has been echoing in the field, leaving the men who returned to the village speechless.

The women in the village are kind, capable, virtuous and simple, and so are their mothers. As long as I can remember, my mother always made a stove of firewood before dawn, and then a person took a clear well water from the ancient well. Smoke from cooking stoves is like the long hair of village women, some thick and some light. In the smoke of the village, I saw my mother lost in thought in the sound of early birds.

The village at dusk is so peaceful. In my mother's dusk, there are many childhood stories. My mother will cook dinner at dusk, then ask me to go home for dinner, let me play games with my peers at night, and let me grow taller and taller in the village at night. Mother has more silence in the sunset of the village, and the voice of the village will disappear with her.