It's blue and there's no rain. I'm still waiting for your essay.

It's blue and there's no rain. I'm still waiting for your essay.

It's blue and it's not raining, but I'm still waiting for your essay. Speaking of prose, I believe that different people have different preferences for prose types. Some people like reading some beautiful prose very much, because beautiful prose can make people relax. Let's share the blue sky without rain. I'm still waiting for your essay!

It's blue and it's not raining, but I'm still waiting for your essay 1. Who is waiting for someone with a piece of paper, drizzling, who is waiting at that window. A wisp of fragrance in the distance can't tell how much we love each other, and a piece of music can't finish singing the world. Counting the process, there is a feeling that I am waiting for you when the sky is blue in Lan Yu, and I am waiting for you before the wind and waves break.

In the world of mortals, who knows how fate will meet and what kind of heart will love each other? In the vast sea of people, perhaps, just a gentle turn and a look back may be a fate meeting and the beginning of a relationship.

In other words, a collision with each other will turn around and miss each other without nostalgia. Miss the spring when the warbler flies, miss the summer when the flowers are fragrant, and sink into the bleak autumn until Xue Meifei dies and youth is gone.

Time will not stay in that blooming sea of flowers forever, nor will it be fixed at a certain time because of meeting. Until some sudden repentance, it opened the threshold of memories, trying to cross the past and continue the wonderful journey.

As a result, in the long river of memory, I was cut by years, stained by dust marks and rhymes, and my inner softness was torn and pulled again and again, accompanied by only the pain of years. However, it is different now.

Looking back at the wasted time, looking back at that time, the past, the wrinkles left by the years, some happy corners, and those lingering intersections have all been settled.

You once said that there can only be one person in this life, and your life is long just to be with you and make an agreement with you all the way.

But now, I am the only one who sighs in the sky. After turning around, that persistence has been indifferent and tasteless, but that persistence will never be exiled. A yearning, a tangle, is a throb in the depths of the soul, but endless.

A promise can wait in another world. A joke will only make people excited for a while, but it will confuse them for a lifetime. Holding your hand and growing old with your son are the support of many people's pursuits and dreams. It may be a mirage on the way, but it is not the end of the story.

The old road with dust marks is the goal I am looking for. Looking for it along time, what you see is the dust and residual coolness in one place.

Facing the falling petals, I brought in tender thoughts, some sadness and joy, which drifted away in the deep sea of memory. If life is the first time, it goes without saying, why bother, why care about what will happen next.

Maybe I can't let go of the delusion hidden in the depths of my soul, because I lost the promise of fireworks, and I was entangled in the melancholy that I couldn't give up, and I couldn't get rid of the shackles of that memory because of lingering thoughts.

And I'm still there silently remembering and missing. It's blue and it's not raining. I'm still waiting for you! ! !

It is blue and there is no rain, but I am still waiting for your essay. 2. The drizzle is beating on the window, bringing coolness. After several days of heat and dryness, it flew into the green trees and printed a bright and moist poem in late spring.

Spring has gradually taken off its colorful clothes, put on a turquoise coat, stepped on the waves and melted into the symphony of the season.

The colorful passing has been engraved into the memory of the years, and a blue lamp has been lit, and the light is getting brighter and brighter. Rain seeped into the soil and the grass grew vigorously, which made a group of people lose their way home.

The bouquet in the bottle has come to the end of its life, reluctant to go, buried in the soil under the tree, brewing in a small apricot, a good time.

When spring goes and spring comes, every grass and tree is a poem, written on the template of the season, with bonus as a foil, green water around, swallows passing by, and people who cherish spring chanting. ...

Throughout the ages, poems praising spring exude a faint' spring sorrow', like a long fluttering willow, which is constantly cut, confused, shocked, wrinkled and slightly rippled.

Since ancient times, beautiful things in the world, like rainbows, can only be hidden in the depths of the sky. Once they see the light, they will die.

Leave a trace of missing, sealed in the incense door, when heartbroken, slowly pour it carefully, such as wine, full of gentle and shallow feelings.

After vicissitudes of life, you have to touch some flowers more or less, otherwise who will accompany you to the full moon?

Half give up, half get, flowers wither, green fruits hide in green leaves, multiply life, and add some real hope to the boring waiting.

After all the hardships, no one dared to draw a pie. Holding the real hand to pursue, avoiding the pit of the mirror, the harvest is complete, and I always feel that I have left some regrets.

Xinxiang, 1 1, where the wind whips the green trees and the overwhelming hail hits the ground, why do you feel that you have epilepsy in season?

Epidemics, wars, the impermanence of seasons ... like hurricanes, they can subvert the peace of the world at any time.

Helpless figure is trembling in the helpless wind, and helpless thoughts are floating. Helpless footsteps walk in the seemingly most beautiful season, and the heavy pressure makes people breathless.

The drizzle is still falling gently and skillfully, and pieces of smoke are blooming among the waterfall-like rose flowers. The scattered flowers ignite hope and rush to my face intensively. ...

I waited with confidence.

The sky is blue and there is no rain, but I am still waiting for you. You are the moss growing in my heart, and every rainy season is full of green thoughts.

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When everyone is lonely, the past will flood in, and thoughts will always stay in those years when the green vines are as green as water.

At that time, it was really "teenagers don't know the taste of sorrow." I feel that all the days are full of birds and flowers, and every day there is the joy of butterflies flying, even a little bit of melancholy and sadness, which is full of poetry and a little bit of wonderful sweetness.

My friends and I were moving bricks on the construction site during the summer vacation of senior one. Although we are tired and bitter, we are always so happy. The piles of maroon bricks have become our "partners" to get along with each other day and night.

"The stream in front of the door is a drop of water in front of the steps. Qingqing sat in front of the door crying, unable to pick up those watery autumn. " I don't know if this is a poem or a lyric. It is carved on a brick with beautiful font and a "maple tree" at the inscription.

It's probably a word in the name. People who can carve such beautiful and fine fonts and poems on a brick should be people with poems in their hearts and distant hearts. I feel a kind of joy and inexplicable throb that I have never felt before.

I took the bricks to my house and put them on my desk. Reading that sentence in my busy schedule every day, I feel an inexplicable ripple in my heart. Once you accidentally spilled water on the turntable, the color of the brick became brighter and the font became clearer.

So, many days later, whenever I want to see that brick, I will sprinkle some water on it and read that beautiful and sad sentence over and over again. Grass grows, Yingying dances with my thoughts, and my heart can't rest in the pile of textbooks on my desk.

Later, I have been paying attention to everyone on the construction site. A clear figure of Xiu Xiu crashed into my field of vision. I think he is the boy who carved poems on bricks.

Sure enough, this quiet and slightly sad big boy is somewhat different among all migrant workers.

Gentle manners, melancholy and deep eyes, gradually understand that he is from Shandong and his family is difficult. He dropped out of school before finishing junior high school, followed his relatives to work in Qinghai and stayed at this construction site for two months.

If my character is compared to a sunny day, then his character can be described as misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, which is a little melancholy, a little sad, and a little misty rain clears my mind.

As we are similar in age, we are closer to each other. In the following days, we carved our favorite poems and our own poems on bricks for each other to taste and appreciate.

We read each other's minds, shared each other's happiness, my sunshine, his melancholy, and met in that rainy season, with years of tenderness and full youth.

"This rainy season, my heart is covered with moss ..." After reading his poems, I feel that I feel carefree and sentimental, and my heart is full of wet precautions.

I actually like rainy days. When it rains, we will find a quiet place on the construction site and carve our favorite poems on bricks. And I, a tomboy, have gradually become more quiet and reserved.

In those days, we didn't hold hands or have sweet love letters. There is only a vague feeling and yearning for green shoots.

A holiday passed quickly and we never met again. There is no contact between them.

At this moment, many years have passed, and many experiences or people I met in my memory have become light or thick, some vague, while others are as clear as before. Only those days, the feeling of spring blossoms, has been stuck in the sky of memory.

Waiting, I can meet him affectionately in endless years. Then tell him gently: "I hope you are all right, you are the moss growing in my heart."

Distant you, if you happen to see this text written by me, will you remember that year, Na Yue, the days we walked together?