记忆里,有一个幽静的小山村,在那里,可以伴着虫鸣入梦,又在鸟儿的歌声中醒来。儿时,我依偎在奶奶怀里,学着奶奶的手法,剪着窗花。窗子是将薄纸抹上浆糊,一张张地糊在小格子上。日子久了,被烟熏过的窗纸开始变黄、变黑,而我剪的窗花依旧歪歪斜斜地贴在那上面。那时,太阳无论多热,也无法照进我的小屋来打搅我的梦。现在,当太阳从天际慢悠悠地升上来的时候,我睡在被树木重重包围、映满翠色的小木屋里。我还在睡梦里微笑,太阳就洒下它如金丝般的光芒,穿过林子,从树叶的缝隙中散落,斑斑点点地映在窗子上, In memory, there is a quiet village, where it can be accompanied by insects and dreams, but also wake up in the birds singing. Childhood, I nestled in my grandmother’s arms, learning the way my grandmother, cut the window. The window is to plaster the paper, one by one in the small grid on the paste. As time went by, the smoked window paper started to turn yellow and black, and the window-cut I was still crooked attached to it. At that time, no matter how hot the sun was, I could not disturb my dream by hitting my cabin. Now, as the sun rose slowly from the sky, I slept in a wooden cabin surrounded by trees. I was still smiling in my sleep, and the sun sprinkled its glittering light through the woods, scattered through the foliage of leaves, streaked on the window,