亭檐的雨滴“笃笃”敲打着亭下的木板,均匀的响声如同古寺中响起的木鱼儿。亭边的榕树沙沙作响,被洗得油亮的叶子泛着浅绿色的青光。阴蒙蒙的清晨,雨细细的,周围一片飘忽的雾,濡湿了一切。我望着这片柔柔的雨,总也想不通作家季薇为何用“肃杀”来形容南国的冬雨。在北方如果冬季飘起了雨,就证明春天的脚步不远了,南方的冬雨轻柔得让人感觉不到它的降临与逝去。 The pavilion’s raindrops “pounded” on the wooden boards under the pavilion, and the uniform sound resembled the wooden fish that rang in the temple. The eucalyptus rustling at the kiosk rustles, and the washed-out leaves glow with a pale green glow. In the gloomy morning, the rain was thin, and a mist was drifting around and everything was wet. When I looked at this gentle rain, I couldn’t figure out why writer Ji Wei used “chilling” to describe the winter rain in southern China. In the north, if it rains in the winter, it proves that the pace of spring is not far. The winter rain in the south is so soft that people cannot feel its advent and death.