Morning, the ground is wet

Every winter and winter, I always think of my childhood, cutting the window in my home. Every time I think of it, the magnificent red is still floating in front of me.

When he was young, he was like a free wind, free and free. He often played until midnight. Sometimes the next snow on winter nights is a joy to me. Out of the glass window, flying in the snow, they fall in the wind, devoutly to the earth, creating a pure land of peace. I put my face close to the window, and exhaled the milky white heat that was visible, as if the flowers were spreading out a layer of white fog. I like the ordinary girl's yearning for the empty but dreamy things, so I doodle on it, the fingertips walk, a lively "fish" leap out.

When my mother saw me be free and at leisure, she taught me to cut the Windows. Cold snow knocked on the window, like a thousand butterflies like the rustle to the window glass, mischievously hit and fly away. It was patterned, and the snow was composed into a warm winter song. The mother's figure was cast in the warm light on the white wall behind her. She folded the red paper neatly, with a gentle smile on her reddish face and a fine outline with a pen. Then the scissors will be cut, and a snowflake with six corners will come.

I can not help but exclaim, hurriedly have a pattern to learn. When I was absorbed in my devotion, a flake of snow was missing, and it seemed a little green and clumsy. It was better than the exquisite snowflakes of mother's. Frustrated, I was ready to throw the window flowers away, but my mother stopped me with a smile. "This is your snowflake, why throw it?"

Yes, no two snowflakes are the same in the world, each one has its own shape, or crystal clear, or glaze color, or incomplete personality. The snow that is missing a dime is not common, let a person recognize in ten million snowflake. All the snow will not be abandoned, graceful visit to the world, in the silent winter in search of a happy. I was moved by my mother's words and pressed the window into the blue window and smiled complacently.

The world is vast, the past like smoke. Many memories are washed away by the long river, the precipitation is always the most profound. I can never forget the scene of the window cut, and I still remember it vividly. My mother's cut window was wrapped in ice, melted in my dreams and returned with my dreams. Now, the window is quietly exiting the stage of history, leaving only a moment of silence.

The snow in the south is very rare, and my paper window is bound to be hidden in the corner. I pray to that bright bright red window flower, I wish that every life that has ever sparkled not to disappear completely, do not lose that belongs to their own snowflake.