Winter Tree

  ”The summer wood is dense and lush and beautiful, while the winter trees are naked, and they are more burly or graceful.” Reading the winter trees in Wu Guanzhong’s writings gives birth to the thoughts of the sunset.
  Living in a small town in the north of the Yangtze River, the land is covered with frost, the heaven and the earth are simple and quiet, and the artistic conception of “Tianjingsha”. In the bleak sunshine, lonely and sparsely, I especially miss the homeland Winter Tree. In winter, the branches are dry and dark, and they are simple and simple, and they become the symbol and birthmark of the village.
  The frosty weather is cold, wandering among the paddy fields in the homeland, and the chill is coming. People are like a lone boat, bumpy. The wilderness is boundless, like the philosophy of Lao Zhuang, and the homesickness is boundless. The old tree in the wilderness, suspected to have come out of the Song paintings, is ancient and cold, like a handsome man with a flute by the Yeyue Lake, and the wind is handsome.
  Dongshu bids farewell to the last thin autumn breeze, bids farewell to the autumn rain that taps the blue tiles like a flute, and becomes a philosopher of winter. Fuyuki is as simple as a sketch, and as sharp as a fish’s ridge. It is pasted on the dark sky, like the blue veins on the back of the hand of an old man in the countryside, full of vicissitudes.
  The remnant snow hangs winter branches, and there is a cold bird kicking and moving, and I, I and I, cast a string of graceful voices. The village was opened in winter morning by a string of birdsong. Lazy village woman with graceful hair bun, graceful posture, simple and beautiful. Chaimen creaked, and the smoke and sleeves danced lightly. Far wild and near trees, white snow, bright sunshine, and pearly luster everywhere. The old man, leaning against the tree, tells of the old past, the dust whirls and the time flows slowly. Caressed by the sun, heavy and ironed like ancient pottery.
  The winter tree at sunset is poignant and silent. The setting sun is drenched, and there is a shyness that is about to fade. The warmth in the cold, faint melancholy and loneliness. A touch of dike like eyebrows, a dash of brown and yellow metasequoia and Italian poplar, straight up, still full of spirits. The haystack is like an old woman, his eyes are deep and dazed, like a petal of falling snow, completing the gentleness of falling.
  Petite villages are scattered in the distance. The smoke is light, the dog barks up and down, the reed dances out of gossip, and the big geese draws patterns. The ancient poetry is so sour. An old poplar tree, accompanied by thin water, is light yellow orange red, transparent and refreshing, like a lighted candle, keeping watch for a hundred years. There is a magpie nest on the branch, and my eyes are full of softness and warmth, wading through my limbs. The Bird’s Nest is a village on the tree, where our ancestors lived.
  After the frost, the winter tree, like a middle-aged person, hides the noise and impetuosity, showing the ink and wash temperament. The green cream is like a pink-faced woman with a green reed face, and the egg white is as tender as the egg white, and it breaks with a finger. The trees and vines were covered with blue frost, and the earth cried at night, deducing the love and hatred of the world.
  On a frosty moon night, the oil lamps in the hut are warming, the night talks around the stove, the old and the poor, and a bowl of reading lamps. The wooden lattice window showed dim yellow light, and the whole village was like a transparent amber, like a mother’s embarrassed jewelry box, locked with a dream.
  The fenced courtyard is old and simple. Broussonetia papyrifera, persimmon tree and neem tree, soaked in warm moonlight. Slender frosty moon, leaning against the treetops. The vigorous old trees, the shadows of the trees on the ground, like the oil paintings of Kaiyi Higashiyama, are quiet and peaceful, peaceful and clean. The miscellaneous trees in the yard, the silhouettes are smooth, like hollow jade carvings, ethereal and clear, imaginary. When the night breeze started, the trees shook like a splash of water. It sounded like a chill.
  Strolling in the moonlit night, wearing frosty white, the heart is full and joyful. The sound of stepping on thin frost, like autumn insects whispering, silkworm chewing mulberry leaves, the world is full of faint interest. In the cold wind, taking a bite of roasted sweet potatoes and sweet-scented osmanthus lotus root while it is hot, I suddenly feel that the world is kind and friendly.
  Li Yu praised Dongshu as “not happy to see rain and dew, but not to be surprised when seeing frost and snow.” Fuyuki is gentle and generous, not humiliated, honest and honest like an old farmer, ancient and clumsy like iron art, indifferent and peaceful, indicating the auspicious and peaceful countryside. Fuyuki is restrained and restrained, lonely and beautiful, presenting the true state of life, clean and upright, invaded by wind and frost, outstandingly independent, and even more brave.
  I would like to stand as a vicissitudes of winter tree in my hometown, watch the four seasons reincarnation, my heart is clear and peaceful, and I will narrate the daily life with the cold bird, the cloud and the light breeze, and talk about the wine. Cut out the miscellaneous, expose the meridians, embrace the happiness and virtues of the world, and spend time purely.

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