春天没有处女作,我的诗,是处女作。清茶淡淡,阳光暖暖。我们围坐在小木桌旁,架起日子的篱笆,把太阳,从东边晒到西边。妈妈端上热气腾腾的芋艿,孩子们捧上香香喷喷的饺子。饺子包得不怎么美,美的是馅里头浓浓的亲情。大红灯笼,从这头挂到那头;喜庆的红包,从你的手里,辗转到她的手里;浓浓的年味,从东家串到西家。屋子里头,在过年。院子那头,亦是年。海棠努力为自己揭开红盖头,羞答答想 Spring no virgin, my poem, is a debut. Tea light, warm sunshine. We sat around the wooden table, set the hedges of the day, the sun, the sun from the east to the west. Mother steaming taro, the children holding the fragrant dumplings. Dumplings not very beautiful package, the United States is the thick affection inside the stuffing. A red lantern hangs from there to the other end; a festive red envelope that goes from your hand to her hand; Inside the house, in the New Year. The other end of the yard is also year Begonia strives to unveil its own red hijab, shy answer