当梦树这个词来到我心里,曾跟她联系在一起的那些事物便一起回来了。带着雾气的清晨的阳光,春天的一两声鸟鸣,母亲出早工回来的身影,祖母在灶屋刷锅的声音,爱惹是非的大公鸡咕咕叫着,昂首阔步,母鸡们一溜儿跟在他身后,向风声飒飒的竹林走去。回忆需要开启的钥匙,对我来说这钥匙无处不在,熟悉的声音、气息、味道、光影、有时是一个捉摸不定的场景,一个梦,或者一朵花一棵草,一个像梦树这样的词汇。梦树不是树,她矮小,且长着柔韧无比的枝杆,她也不像花,毛绒绒的花球球垂挂在光秃秃的枝头,一点儿 When the word tree came to my heart, those things that had been associated with her came back together. Morning mist with the sun, the sound of a spring or two birdsong, the mother came back early figure, grandmother in the house brush the sound of the pan, cock messing big cock, swaggering, hen a runner Follow behind him and walked to the bamboo grove. Memories need to open the key, the key to me everywhere, familiar sound, breath, taste, light and shadow, and sometimes a fickle scenes, a dream, or a flower of a grass, like a dream tree like this Vocabulary The tree was not a tree, but she was short, and had a long, pliable stick. She did not like flowers, and fluffy flower balls hung on bare branches, a little