A tree in autumn

I am a tree in autumn, a maple tree that burns passion and life in autumn.

Late autumn is my most beautiful season. I survived the long and severe winter, the warm spring, and the hot summer, finally ushering in a clear and mature autumn. In the season that belonged to me, I began to exhale enthusiasm continuously, blooming beautifully to my heart’s content, and showing poetry and painting freely.

After the frost, I unscrupulously sprayed the passion and blood that I had accumulated for a year on the leaves, so that the forests were stained and the valleys were red, allowing people to experience a blood-stained demeanor. My red leaves are like burning flames, condensing passion and rising with confidence.

I will not compete with the flowers in the spring, nor will I compete with the fruits of autumn. I use red leaves to create a unique mood and beauty, and to describe a legend of red leaves. Flowers dominate spring, leaves dominate autumn. The main colors of red and yellow leaves put on the mountains and the earth in gorgeous autumn clothes. My beauty is majestic, thrilling, and earth-shattering.

My beautiful moon is shameless, and the sunset is inferior. But the colorful chrysanthemums share with me the clear, hearty, and mature autumn, releasing the fragrance, offering golden, snow-white, red, light green, purple and other colorful colors for the autumn, which contrasts with my bloody color. Compose the most beautiful movement of autumn life.

I am not a poet, but the passion of my life inspires the poet’s inspiration. Du Mu’s “frosty leaves are red on the February flowers” poem is a resonance with my soul, a tribute to my life, and the sublimation and sublimation of the love of the maple leaf . On the side of the Fengqiao Bridge, in the curling bells of the Hanshan Temple outside Gusu City in the middle of the night, the poet Zhang Ji once aroused the infinite melancholy of traveling the world, leaving behind a poem that travels through time and space and is immortal for thousands of years.

I am not a painter, but painters have come to pay respects, sighing and admiring each other, standing and staring, solidifying and fixing infinite affection on the drawing paper. They used Zhu Nongfen to paint and render as they pleased, obscure, abstract, and realistic. The painting styles are very different and each has its own characteristics. The photographers traveled thousands of miles away, armed with long guns and cannons, constantly bombarding me with ever-changing angles, and capturing the masterpieces of emotion. Either quiet, unrestrained, or majestic, with ingenuity and ingenuity.

Thanks to the nurturing grace of the earth, I have harvested red leaves that are better than February flowers, and have met thousands of talented poets, painters, and photographers.

Peaches and plums, the next from Seikei. The maple tree doesn’t say anything, but it’s a tragic next. Praise the successful people who always love to work silently.

How many people have been fascinated, lingered, or even crazy by my scenery. But I must stay awake, because I know that perfection and beauty are followed by endless loneliness, coldness and sadness. Years of experience have already matured me and made me feel calm and indifferent. I have enough strength and tenacity to deal with the relentless weight of the snow and the ravages of the cold wind.

In the spring of the following year, I will wake up with the earth and all things and start a new cycle of life. After many hardships: endure the long drought in spring, the scorching sun in summer, and accept the sudden hail forge. But I will stick to the land under my feet that nourishes me, take the roots deeper, farther, and more, actively seek and absorb water and nutrients, and strive to grow a thicker green leaf, and gain momentum for red. When the frost arrives, come again to sprinkle the blood in the late autumn. Write more mature and meaningful poems and portray more creative paintings.

Life is endless, endless struggle, endless dedication. Even in the severe winter, you can’t sleep to death; even if the branches are numb and dry and cracked, the heartbeat can never stop; even if the body turns into ashes, the soul can never decay.

This is my inner monologue of a maple tree in autumn.