Spring came quietly to the author Lin Shiwei. She died in the winter of February, and cold raindrops filled the earth. I looked sideways, watching the flowers in bud and the sky gradually darkening. Looking back at the bleak December, the shivering branches are dying with cool dew. A little boundless moment turns into glittering and translucent, splashing and falling. There is no edge to seeing flowers in the fog. It is full of silence, but it is also full of coldness. If it is like a soft silence, so soft, so deep. In winter, when I am dying, it is spring, if there is nothing. The sky is high and the clouds are light, the sky is blue and the winter is dark, but there is still a trace of nostalgia. The former is comfortable and the latter is far away. On February 1 ST, the grass was growing. The fragrance is warm and in full bloom. Spring is like a skirt pleat on the horizon, calling for vitality and dancing the years. The dark green branches are covered with buds, which indicates the prosperity of life and the beauty of spring. Lazy morning light is scattered on the earth, and there are pleasant winds everywhere. Even breathing is refreshing. I think those must be some flowers in bud. I can't help but let spring bloom quietly. Crows are everywhere, and the life in the nest wakes up. I yearn for the thoughts between the spring sky and the house. Perhaps a group of orchids in the distance don't need to tell the chilly spring poetically. It's just a little far. In recent years, it still has a bright outline. Full of the softness and meaning of spring. In spring, the poet's great feelings can't hide his admiration for you. His wings that you want to fly just let you flow quietly, while I am breathing quietly and getting drunk with you.