Morning reading | collect yourself

This winter solstice, not a single snow allows itself to meet the real winter.

When I did not go to the cemetery, I hid my tears; in the face of my relatives sleeping far away, I silently sent a message, you, have always been in my heart.

Every winter, it was cold, sometimes, very hard. Every winter, I pass by gently, comforting the ancestors, I, we, are all well.

This winter, I'm collecting myself. I attribute the fallen leaves under my feet to the affection of the roots; in the coming year, it will be a new green. I collect the winter sun and shine on the four seasons of the New Year; I look far away to see the geese returning from the north to the south, and pass on the spring news. I look at the still water that is not alarming, drive a leaf boat, and cross myself.

In the winter, the pair of cotton shoes made by my sister were put on again; occasionally, the scraped copper plate left by my mother wandered on my back; the old cotton wool added some new cotton to warm the feelings in the quilt; under the sun, in meditation.

This winter, I collect myself. I combed through all the past no's, I reviewed my insincere and unkind words, I put down the Tang poems and Song poems under the winter sun, and wrote my own poems.

This winter, I let myself go. (Chen Lianguan)