Clouds are the poem of the sky (prose)

Returning from the mountains yesterday, the traffic became slow and congested when entering the city. In an inadvertent moment, a mass of flowing and changing white broke into my sight. That flash of white instantly captured my heart. ?

I don’t know when, my eyes have been obsessed with this flowing white. Every time it passes by my world, I remember its appearance. ? If you like the blue of the sky, you should also start with the poetic white.

The whiteness of the clouds is a bit intoxicating. I imagine if there is any kind of whiteness in the world that can compare with it. However, in the remaining memory and cognition, I have not found a whiteness that surpasses it. .

? I love the days of chasing clouds, and I love the big clouds that exist in my world in different postures. I enjoy its freedom, ease, and the fragrance of the clouds. All over the world.

? Do you, like me, know that the cloud is fragrant? Yes, clouds are not only fragrant, but I also know that clouds have roots and seeds, and their seeds will fall to the ground, take root, sprout, bloom and bear fruit. It will climb along the veins of life, reach the other side of happiness again and again, and then return to the end of the world with a ray of breeze.

? Yes, clouds are the rising essence of all things, pure and noble, free and unrestrained, never entangled in the world, freely switching between heaven and earth, over and over again, the sky as a flowing home, for the blue sky It sets off a sense of depth and remoteness, but never loses its own elegance.

That whiteness may be the river in childhood, or it may be the joy of love. That whiteness may be the vitality of youth, or it may come from the dew on the father’s trouser legs. That whiteness may come from the fields in spring.

That white was once the backbone of the grass, that white was once the pulse of the big tree, that white was once the oil paint in the painter's brush, that white was once the years flowing on the face of the laborer.

Chasing the white clouds, walking footprints are left in the sky. Every detail of life is treasured in the white with the ticking sound of the second hand. The snowflakes once passed me by with their whiteness in the cold north, and the sea of ??clouds spreading on the top of the mountains once towered together with the mountains at my feet. I once saw the joy of white shuttle between the mountains and the sea in the streams of the valley, the bravery when falling, and the boldness of galloping horses. No one can stop the white poetry, which alternates between cold and warm between crossing and transpiration. After every success and failure, it quietly merges into the vast sea of ????people, intertwined with sorrow and joy, and then, on the blooming stamens, on the wings of the butterfly Above, in the fragrance of grass, the whiteness of the sky returns again.

Some people say that the white is light, like a thin and soft ribbon when it is light.

Some people say that white is heavy, and when it is heavy, it can hang upside down into the sea.

Some people say that the white is the entrance to Yaochi, the dressing table of Sister Rainbow, and the battlefield of Thunder God and Lightning Mother. Every time they fight, the upside-down sea will be cut into rain, which will fall into the mortal world. Become the backbone of small flowers and grasses again, feeding every seed from dryness to fullness.

The whiteness of the clouds is lingering in my eyes and becomes a painting. The whiteness of the clouds expresses endless poetry in my blue sky. Whether it is in front of the window in the early morning, or the horizon at dusk, whether it is the wilderness under the lonely smoke in the desert, or the lonely emptiness on the Gobi Desert, all the white and blue blend, every flower, every piece, every touch is a song The beautiful poem reflects the nature, the mortal world, the joys and sorrows, the ordinary, and the magic. When it reaches my eyes, I still remember the autumn we walked together, the summer we walked together, and the running together. The journey, the end of the world where we played together.

Clouds are the poetry of the sky, the auspiciousness floating from the Potala Palace, the clouds are the poetry of the sky, the soul of snowflakes and the faith of the wind.

Clouds are the poetry of the sky, the paintings of the four seasons, and the wings of the sky. No one can refuse it. The poetic whiteness flows in my eyes...

The fourth chapter of "Prose Group" of Huifeng Literary Training Camp Assignment

2019.6.20

Picture photography: Ye Zhiqiu