Qingming bamboo

Near the Ching Ming Festival, I suddenly remembered bamboo. My good impression of bamboo was born in a fog on the Ching Ming Festival. The tomb of the great-grandfather was in the mountains, and it was necessary to go to worship to take a long mountain road. In the early hours of the morning, the fog was over the sky, and the scenery a few meters away was very blurred. It makes sense to choose to go out at such a time, because today I have to go to several hills to worship the ancestors. I only remember that in the morning, my father took the sacrifice and walked behind. I ran and ran ahead, like a bird that was out of the cage. It seems that I still have a tune in my mouth, maybe.

The mountain road stretches and the weeds grow to my chest. We passed the fields, bypassed the creek, climbed the steep slope, turned over several hills, and finally came to a canyon. The father shouted softly: "Don't run too fast, there is a bamboo forest in front." I responded, but ran to the canyon. The father shook his head behind and smiled slightly. He knows that I like bamboo very much.

Near, near. There was a rustling of sand in the mountain wind, and at the corner I finally saw the figure of the bamboo forest. The green tide has taken root in my life and I can no longer erase it.

The leaves above the bamboo forest are plunging into the wind, and the sound of chills is like a green rapids. All the leaves are in one direction. The slender and green leaves, just like the boat in the rapids, rushed forward. I stood among the thousands of bamboos and only felt that I had been conquered by green. The tall bamboo straightens into the sky and grows to the top of the canyon, covering the sky and playing with white clouds. Small bamboo, just the bamboo that broke out of the earth, like the size of my fingers, the verdant green, and the sprinkling of a small cluster of small boats on the branches, joined the battle in the fog. The green shock was overwhelming, and thousands of emeralds were swaying in front of me. I stroked the big and small bamboos and wandered around the forest. I only thought that everything was so beautiful.

The father put down the sacrifices on his shoulders and stood in the woods.

There was a crisp bird song in the forest. It was a tit, jumping on the green branches and enjoying the atmosphere of the world. The sound of squeaking, that is the clear spring that oozes from the cracks of the rock, such as the crystal of the jade. The cold mist oozes out a few drops of water on the bamboo, and some slide down the bamboo knot, leaving traces of the stream passing by; some of them sway from the tip of the leaf, and they playfully play, such as Meteor rushed to the ground.

Later, perhaps the first sunshine that pierced the fog in the forest awakened his father. He used a knife to cut a thumb-sized piece of bamboo and handed it to me. Gently patted my little head and called: "Let's go, we still have a lot to go." Maybe it's young, or maybe not deep enough for the ancestors. The loneliness in the barren hill always makes me feel gloomy. If there is no father beside me, I can guarantee that I will cry. That year's Qingming did not leave much memory about the ancestors, but forever remembered the bamboo forest, the green, ethereal world. I also remember the bamboo that my father cut it for me, the bamboo that was cut into a flute in the clear night, and the bamboo that blows on the lips of his father. That melodious and deep voice, which runs through my entire childhood, runs through my entire life.

Yes, then I grew up. I read a lot of verses about bamboo, such as "three bamboo branches outside the bamboo blossoms, the prophet of the spring river plumbing duck." It is Su Shi's, and read "the bamboo 喧 喧 浣 ,, the lotus move under the fishing boat." is Wang Wei's. I have read a lot and I have seen many people painting bamboo, such as Zheng Banqiao's paintings, but they always feel lost. There is no verse in the ethereal world, and no brush can be substituted. Yes, at least in my heart.