Autumn has only just arrived, and winter remains a distant prospect, yet I find myself already dreaming of spring—my longing outpacing even that of our great poet, Shelley.
In the early morning, the sky reveals the faintest silver of dawn. A soft, overnight rain has silently saturated the earth. Sensing the distant call of spring, the soil grows soft, and tiny blades of grass begin to sprout. Against the dark earth, I catch sight of tender, light-yellow shoots—one, two, three, until they cover the ground. Gradually, their color shifts, transforming from pale yellow to yellow-green, and finally into the vibrant, lush green of a Jiangnan spring. Tiny flowers rush to bloom as well—one, two, three... in shades of red, purple, pink, yellow, white, and blue. These diminutive blossoms breathe profound vitality into the meadow. Spreading like a carpet of emerald green, the grass is dappled with colorful flowers bright as stars. Spring is truly exquisite, akin to an eighteen-year-old maiden—a breathtaking sight by nature’s design, I cannot help but marvel. Sitting on a light-brown park bench, immersed in the warm spring sun, I draw a deep breath of the crisp air. Ah, how wondrous are the gentle spring winds, the nourishing rain, and the fresh, invigorating air!
I awaken softly, bathed in the morning light filtering through the gentle gap in the curtains. Before my bleary eyes can fully open, a serene smile already greets the arrival of spring. It was all a dream, after all; the warmth of my down duvet had nurtured it—what a wonderfully warm dream to have.
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