Mother used a hoe to dig out the spring in the snow, and from then on to another world.
  stand on the red liangzi mother cry, echoing mountains.
  At the top of the mountain, I picked up a stone and threw it down. The stone fell on the ground, and it was quiet and silent in a new place. The mother is like a stone, arranged in the mountains, and is obscured all her life, splitting in obscurity, and walking in the river in obscurity.
  Life is like a river, and we are all like a stone, following the current in this river, slapping the cliffs on both sides. When the storm hits the shore, can it roll up a thousand piles of snow?
  overseas, mother to get up early, will star off.
  In the village, the mother got up and lit the fire in the stove to wake up a village. Mother’s footsteps are very low, but in a traditional way, the village and the earth are awakened.
  The smoke rose, and the morning sun crowned the village. The rooster pulled its throat open and sang praises to the hardworking people.
  Cooking by burning fire, feeding horses and chopping wood, raising poultry, and planting cabbage, coriander, lotus white, etc., for a vegetable garden in front of and behind the house. This is the poem and distance of a rural family.
  Mother, calling our names in the deep mountains overseas, those long and two short words echoed in the mountains. We went out to study for many years, and we moved our home out of here. After many years, we came back alone and still felt that someone was yelling, standing at the pass.
  I also shouted several times at different angles. After shouting a few times, I felt relieved.
  One day, I was standing next to the pond, wind, water instant wrinkle rage. The wind stopped, and those wrinkles disappeared or diminished.
  With age, the wrinkles on the mother’s face become more and more.
  Over the years, I have rebelled and crossed the gap between myself and my parents. My mother’s forehead, like a plate of the earth’s crust, is getting stronger and stronger, and the width of wrinkles is becoming more and more sad.
  ”Parents are here, there is still a place in life; when parents go, there is only a way back in life.” When I was a child, I lived with relatives, and my parents came every three to five. Since then, we have turned our life into an ocean, we are just a fish, swimming around has become a normal state. When a person lives outside, home is farther away.
  I remember that in the biosphere, there is a species called salmon. At the end of September and early October, they follow a familiar and established route in groups from the Atlantic Ocean back to the freshwater river along the St. Lawrence River.
  This is true of mother’s life, and so is our life.
  During the winter and summer vacations, I went home, returned overseas, and returned to Heishi. My father was still like that. Whether morning or evening, I made a cup of tea and walked around the courtyard alone to see the bees on the roof; my mother was still washing rice, cooking, and cooking Different dishes are fried in that little pot, smelling different tastes. When cooking, my mother clearly estimated the amount of salt in everyone in the family.
  Mother, who has been in the kitchen for nearly thirty years, has seen the salty world thoroughly.
  grew dark, the mother home?
  Overseas, the mountains are too high and the sky seems to get darker faster than elsewhere.
  More than ten years ago, my mother once lit a flashlight and took the cow to knock down the dew on the grass by the roadside. For a rural woman with elementary school education, this is not a crime, but the rhythm of life.
  My father drove a carriage and drove a tractor. There was always a mother in this car, and then we were there.
  In the field, my mother worked hard on the farm, and her lunch break would be considered a waste of time. From spring to planting, fertilizing and weeding in summer, and harvesting in autumn, their time is covered by rolls of film, like water drops on the film, and quickly evaporated by the past. Mother used a hoe to dig out the spring in the snow, and from then on to another world.
  The mother is a person with good tolerance and serious work. Those who have not grown corn must be replanted with corn or red beans. She didn’t want her countryside, such as Tao Yuanming’s “Grass Sheng Dou Miao Xi”.
  One third of her mother’s life is spent on the land, and the rest of her life will be indissoluble with the land. Eventually, we will be arranged on the ground again by seniority.
  from overseas to Blackstone, the houses get smaller, the pace will accelerate, only the temperature of the house as always.
  My mother set up stalls, sold fruits, and sold snacks, and used a scale to weigh good and evil. How should my mother’s helplessness in the world be called?
  Even in the cold winter, the time for mothers to close their stalls is not too early, and there are countless people like mothers on the whole street. They express the “human touch” of a street with the breath of early morning and the busy sound of evening.
  From east to west, from south to north, apart from water molecules and dust, there are sorrowful stories and various flavors in the air.
  Those people who fry potato on the street, they are also mothers. They peeled the potato to restore the skin color of each potato. The oil was too oily, as if to obliterate those evil thoughts. The oil of those fried potatoes, the refined fragrance, permeates the air, and sometimes collects on the umbrella and becomes soot. The lampblack turned into dust or dirt in the end, and my mother was still serving customers with her original intentions day after day.
  On the street, people who sell glutinous rice balls are indispensable. They make noodles, make glutinous rice balls, and cook glutinous rice balls. They complete the glutinous rice balls, and they also fulfill their love with customers.
  Winter will go, spring will come, and the lights will be bright. The most profound thing is those who resemble mothers.
  I always feel that in this life there is a long-distance call through, I want to make is to the mother. When you call your father, your mother will always whisper next to him: Ask how he is doing recently? Eat three meals, and thicken your clothes when it’s cold…
  Can the moonlight tonight bring all my thoughts to my hometown and calm my mother’s worries in my dreams?
  The trees were standing, just trying to tell us when the wind came and where it was heading, and my mother often stood on the bridge and stood on the ridge to watch me. What she wanted to tell me, this is not my mother alone. Mothers all over the world will tell their children some stories. Although the stories are different, love is the same.
  On the ridge where the mother was standing, an iris blossomed, and the petals had stories of wind and rain; the dandelion fluffs were flying in the wind, and the seeds were scattered everywhere. Mother, stands like a monument.