Solar Term Poetry │ Neighboring Zhao Lihua

Zhao Lihua came to Tennessee alone, that is, in Quzhou.

Pear flower godmother stopped writing pear flowers.

She planted 100 virtual pear trees and named them: Lihua Commune.

Zhao Lihua grows vegetables, sweeps the floor and eats sugar cane in Lihua Commune. When two peasant women quarreled

She rushed up: "Stop arguing, it's all next-door neighbors."

The peasant woman gave her a big radish, and Zhao Lihua was thinking about how to pickle it.

Entertain comrades from other provinces.

She put a millet windmill on the beam, flying in the air like a cow.

She left Mrs. Guo on the wall, a room full of Princess Tang.

The ponytail sweeps away the dust in the south of the Yangtze River, so you can draw.

I want to move to Lihua Commune and live next door to Zhao Lihua.

I'm going to plant a cabbage with farmyard manure and deliver it to my door.

Become the third course on her table.

The second course, her Tennessee pie, is filled with Quzhou.

On a snowy day, I want to bring a snow to my door and pretend that pear blossoms are falling.

There is no need to think about it:

There is no snow in this solar term, and there is no pear flower in the pear flower commune. This is nothing.

Lihua's godmother is here, and everything is forgiven.