The home of falling snow
Text/Li Yongsheng
The village carves its own rings in the wind and snow, and the calm knife technique hollows out the past, and each inhabitant wanders inside, catching the shadow of time in the deepest part of the ring.
Walking out of the bustling, in the frame of a grain of snow, the leaves shake themselves off, and the scattered branches and leaves are silent and calm at the moment of curtain call, they start from spring and end in winter, when it is green, it covers the sky, and when it is dry, it is naked. The deep accumulation of yellow on the earth is a continuation of another kind of sunshine, which is clustered together and rots into mud, and returns the depth of the land with the loyalty of the leaves falling back to the roots.
Standing in front of a fallen leaf, I deeply look at my life, when I am in my twilight years, will I have a calm and elegant state? At this time, a fallen leaf has become my ocean spiritual boat, and the waves of leaves flying in the wind and snow are driving away my sluggish steps again and again.
Since spring, I have been plowing the winter soil, taking advantage of the warm sun, to sow the birds and the fragrance of flowers in the idleness of the approaching snow. I began to pay attention to these things, and I gradually understood after stumbling in the wind and snow of my hometown for more than 30 years, and the bamboo and cypress in the garden, the finches in the forest, and the grass and trees on the slope had long surrendered the ice and snow to their calmness. Regardless of the changing seasons, I only cook tea and wine in the house of my soul, singing about the small piece of heaven and earth that I control independently, and those creatures of plants, trees, insects and fish, it seems that they are born to know all this.
Heavy snow of goose feathers wraps the village tightly throughout the winter. In the days of hibernation, all the footprints are locked by the doors and windows, all the noises make the snow covered, everything is careful, it is a grand silent ceremony. In the snowy night, even the night will be insomnia, and there is no longer a grain of dust in the clean snow, and the old things are buried inch by inch, as if everything is sucking the pure white of the snow.
Every snow in the hometown is warm and deep, the stumps scattered in the fields, and the ugliness of the naked eyes are all drowned in a silvery world. This piece of silver and white, rational and sincere, her coldness can make you dissect impetuousness, after experiencing a cold and bone-chilling pain, you know that the process of walking needs to be chilled from time to time to cool your soul. The mountains, stones, water, and grass of the hometown have all been disturbed by the hustle and bustle of their own youth, vigorous in the spring, flamboyant in the summer, and bleak in the autumn, but the winter in the twilight years is more calm, more like a rushing river flowing into the sea and sometimes unfathomable.
When I was young, I read snow, always reading a fairy tale, never thinking about the stories outside the snow, only building a happy kingdom in the snow, but never digging out the sorrow behind the happiness. When you are older, the snow will no longer accompany you and often create some frustrations for you, in the hunger and cold, in the ice and snow, you will finally understand the scheming of the snow. A seed of snow, from the moment it is sown, is destined to grow only indifference and silence, in the snow city only to seize the high ground, can look down on its lowliness, the strong will be in the cold and transcendence, and the weak are always in the lonely cold and begging for seclusion.
In the undulating wilderness, full of silver heavens, the village slept peacefully throughout the winter, and the smoke was the breath of the village, and the peaceful beauty of how many courtyards were stung in the well-proportioned breath. Each tree is refreshed, they stand around the village to face the wind, although the attributes are different, the height is different, but they are all in their own rings to watch the sorrow and joy of the villagers, every time you look up, you can get a glimpse of their bones. This kind of standing posture is the height that it is difficult for birdsong to fly over in winter, and only the altitude of clouds and wind can get their silent heart.
The snowy village hides itself in a quiet world, not looking at the peach and plum competing for beauty, not smelling the murmuring of waterfalls, and not exploring any morning songs and dusk drums. The small bridge is wrapped in silver yarn and is rich in the season, the flowing water is lonely in the ice, and the alleys, low walls, and all the crawling away that I am familiar with are all hidden in the pure cotton of winter, and I knit my dreams with pure thoughts.
Everything is whispering quietly, you see, in the steaming house, the farmers must be exchanging the joy of spring ploughing and autumn harvest, and when the snow falls on the village, they hide this year in the snow hoard. The flying snow particles often come in your sleep, carrying auspicious rays to pave the poetic paths into thousands of households, walking on these paths everywhere diffuse the charm of the five grains, even the magpies and hares are shy and clumsy plump, from time to time flashing above your head or in front of your eyes. At this time, the wind is no longer violent, deliberately drying all the crisp sounds on the snow, moving and not moving, waking up and not waking up, all the flying and running are trying their best to outline a quiet and beautiful New Year's painting in tacit understanding, and no one can bear to break the silence of this Yinhao.
I have worried many times about the wheat buried by the heavy snow, can the age of the ruler be able to bear this strength? The immature body and bones can bear this cold? I carefully peeled away the layers of snow, it is like opening up the world of spring, the wheat seedlings are full of energy, the glazed green stems and leaves stand up to the sky, the arrays under them are dignified, and the green empire is infinitely vast. It is conceivable that such a group of warriors, who are waiting in the cold extreme in the cold and snow, will definitely beat the drums on the battlefield in June!
Walking in my hometown, in the world of snow, I will always be surrendered by emptiness, and I will also be touched and struck, and my soul will inhabit the depths of this hometown.
The water is still, the forest is empty, and only the snow dances lightly in its own blank space. The noisy village on weekdays, with a curtain of dreams on their pillows and a thick quilt to sleep soundly, is so intoxicated to accept the gifts of the season.
The sunlight scattered in front of the house and behind the house, dipped in the silver white of the snow, gently brushed the wisps of burning wheat, just right to paste myself in the warmth and warmth, looking at the silence and beauty in front of me, how I want to hide myself in the snow of my hometown.