Spring is far away, summer is long, the wind is like a promise, it will take a long time, and there is always a fragrance in the world.

how many flowers, how many solar terms, the tone is cool.

how many apricot flowers are scattered, paid a flute, and how many are red all over the path, all of which are recorded in the book of years, air-dried into graceful poems and condensed into the silent fragrance of time.

in early summer, spring is far away, summer is long, the wind is like a promise, flowers bloom for a certain period, and there is always a fragrance that comes through the soul.

The peach blossom that the son passed by returned home, and entered the early summer covered with wheat. You are still you, and I am still me, just like the mountains, the low clouds, the bamboo green wind and the empty green wet clothes.

In April, everything is fragrant.

When the first rain in early summer falls, the gardenia blooms in front of the courtyard, dressed in white, and it blooms all over the snow.

Gardenia, like an elf on earth, bears the sadness of graduation season and the beauty of youth, with a beautiful and indifferent posture and a simple and leisurely charm, just like the girl who walked through the bluestone alley.

in the elegant face, exquisite thoughts are written, and those clear memories are read. All that's missing is the faint ink, and the fingers are snowing, drawing a page of nostalgia, which is innocent all night, reflecting the lights in front of you far away.

The people and things in the old days have become clear and beautiful, and the desolate grass and smoke cover the path of the years.

Only the past is a slowly unfolding picture. What kind of affectionate dialogue did those teenagers have in that distant dream? In the story of the rainy season, what kind of ending did we have later?

Time has no shore, and the years pass like water. We are all past the age of watching flowers and weeping and looking at the moon with sorrow. We only remember occasionally, and there will be some warm people and a beautiful past, who have been guests in your heart.

They are quiet, some are reading a poem, some are drinking a cup of coffee, and some are in a daze. They are either enthusiastic, some are laughing, some are making noise, and some are cooking wine.

Pu Shu: How reluctant I am in this life. I've traveled across the ocean. It's a long time, vague and countless fleeting years, and a specious face. Telling me your story makes me laugh.

at some point in one's life, people sit at the window, the wind is shaking and the moonlight is swimming. Suddenly, they feel that their previous life was full of mountains and mountains, and in the end, they turn their hearts a thousand times, just like turning over a page.

at that time, there was a wind in the book, and the wind blew away the clouds, and the clouds took away a rain, which wet a page of alleys.

Life is like a summer flower, as gentle as ever

If there are memories to be drunk, I wish I were you, forgetting to take away a local accent and read a chapter of poetry, which is full of clouds and smoke, empty mountains and cold snow, and the ink is floating, full of eyes and a faint scroll.

If there is a fleeting time to remember, I wish I were you, forgetting the moonlight embroidered on it. It's yours. Last year, the weather was old, the moon was blown away by the wind, and the heaven was wet by the heavy rain. I only stayed in my old hometown, waiting for fate to take root.

Perhaps there are solar terms in the past. Swallow grass was born, Qin Sang was low in green, and she was pregnant with Grain Rain. When she read it, it was already white.

Perhaps festivals are all epigrams. beginning of spring is the storm, the rain is the corn poppy, the fright is the memory of the south of the Yangtze River, the vernal equinox is the small mountains, the Qingming is the Xijiang Moon, Grain Rain is the wind, and long summer is the butterfly.

Maybe those vague times will one day be just a piece of Qiu Guang light in the lotus; Perhaps the story starts from the beginning. In a warm light, the past is quiet and the old thoughts are silent.

in the past, the pen is old, the pen tip is thin, and the thinner the thing, the clearer it is; For tomorrow, I have leisure to study ink. It takes more time to grind an inkstone than to write a word, and when it is polished, I will write a life, and the ink is light and the clouds are light.

It rained all night, and the four mountains were dark green in the morning, just like the old days, twisted into strings and dripped into ink, and then on a blank piece of rice paper, the old days, young and lonely poems, an old wall clock on the wall and a landscape were raised.

I always hope that all the beautiful things in this world can escape the ambush of time, such as this spring; I hope that the flowers will slowly fall and my parents' hair will slowly turn white; I hope to wait for someone, get closer, love someone and grow old.

It's just that time is always another line, and we can't escape the fate arranged by time.

In this life, I only want to be poetic, Zen, rhyme, spring and green everywhere, and when my pen is dry, I will be an old chrysanthemum and count my cold plums.

Give love to young Chinese, and wish the days to be quiet and gentle.

I always think that the more determined people are, the more gentle they are. The more compassionate people are, the more tolerant they are.

Life should be a little picturesque. There is no need for green mountains and green waters, lush trees, heavy rocks and clouds, and there is no need for much majestic momentum and ups and downs.

just one morning, there was a wisp of kitchen smoke, a little fragrance of vegetation and a bird's cry; Just one evening, there was a little sunset glow, butterflies wearing flowers and dragonflies with water.

a poem, a small scene, a little leisure and a little heart are beautiful enough.

I would like to write all the good times of my life into thousands of chapters and pictures, and cherish them with someone who knows; With a strange fellow traveler, know each other and enjoy each other.

On the drifting road of life, we met all the way, missed all the way, picked up all the way, abandoned all the way, beautiful all the way, and withered all the way.

I would like to grow a path in my heart when I walk in the mud. When it rains, I will borrow an oil-paper umbrella from the poet.

Spring is deep and summer is shallow, the wind is warm and the days are long. May your love for your heart never leave you, no matter how old you are or how deep the wrinkles on your forehead are.