After the rain, the sky stretches higher, the village seems taller, and the trees stand more majestic. The lightning that just flashed—was it heaven bending down to snap a photograph? And this moment, perhaps, is that freshly developed print, still damp and untouched. Each leaf carries light, each leaf draped in a perfectly fitted silk robe.
Pearl-like moments roll one by one from the leaves, tumbling into roadside grass, slipping into the crevices of courtyard flagstones, and drifting into the dusk of every inch of the rain-soaked garden, where the fragrance of gardenias lingers thickly. Though no sound is heard, a vast echo resonates within. Holding a cup of clear tea, gazing at distant mountains like ink, one might even taste a hint of wine's warmth.
The freshly bloomed afternoon pumpkin flowers had wilted, their little yellow faces drooping and wrinkled. But as the breeze blew gently, the blossoms perked up again, like miniature gramophones mounted on vines, ready to wind up and sing at any moment. Would they sing the Yue opera my parents loved?
Clothes dried on the line have all returned home. Left on the empty rack are only a droplet of fish-water, like an earring, and the late moon with its gentle breeze.
The open water jar is full. Rainwater, traveling a thousand miles, rests inside, lying or sitting at ease, holding a piece of sky in its hands.A dragonfly balances on the damp rim like a tiny harp, its delicate melody drifting endlessly over water and sky.
All dust returns to the earth, deep and light greens ripple across the surface, countless unseen blossoms stroll through the crisscrossing branches.
Cooking smoke curls gracefully, the air carries a faint sweetness, and plants exude their fragrance. White rice, black charcoal, iron pots over wood-fired stoves, square tables and long benches. Simple living, precious tranquility.
How I regret not stepping into the rain-soaked earth, joining the deep-green magnolias and the emerald vines to receive the rain's blessing, and then, too, to shine brightly.