The waves are like thousands of miles of snow, and the peach blossoms are like a silent team of spring.
Going back on the time boat, the elders reach their seventies in their old age, and then reach their sixties. Until the 28th year of youth, when the love interest was first awakened, I was ignorant and hazy, and in my weak years, I wrote poems to express my sorrow and moaned without illness. All the way back to toddlerhood and babbling.
Time, please go slower, don’t take away the spring, please keep the autumn. I don’t want to grow up, just be a wave of flowers, go see the blue of the sky, the waves of the sea, and the neon colors of the rainbow.
The annual rings of the big tree are peeled off in circles, recalling the time when the small trees and flowers danced, swaying in the wind, rustling, rhyming poetry, and uninhibited posture.
The lightness of time, the simple colors, the dust-free state of mind, humming the songs of childhood, lying in mother's cradle. Run, cheer, and jump to chase a cloud in the sky, a boat in the sea, and a piece of white paper.
The pace of time, go back. I don’t know who is singing: Come back, come back, wandering wanderer.
After walking a long way, I realized that my mother’s arms are the warmest harbor, always waiting for my little boat drifting in the wind and waves.
The boat sailed leisurely through the reed swamp, watching the reeds flying all over the sky, and looking at the other side of the world.
The past events are traced back to the past, the camera is played back, the face is raised, the eyes are blinking, listening to my mother’s story about my grandma, and my father’s story about the year I was born.
What is that sound? Listen: On the banyan tree by the pond, cicadas are calling for summer. On the swing by the playground, only butterflies are parked on it, waiting for the end of get out of class, waiting for school to be over, and waiting for the childhood of games.