Write a composition on the topic "It rains in Tomb-Sweeping Day"
Suddenly surprised, the Spring Festival society has passed and Tomb-Sweeping Day has arrived again.
Tomb-Sweeping Day is both a solar term and a festival. Also known as March Festival in ancient times, it has a history of more than 2,000 years. "Everything grows at this time, and everything is clean and bright. So it is called Qingming. " After Tomb-Sweeping Day, the rain increased, everything changed from yin to yang, and the old was abandoned to welcome the new, which was full of spring tranquility.
In the eyes of modern people, "Qingming" is more closely related to grave sweeping and memorial service. This is because the day before in Tomb-Sweeping Day was the Cold Food Festival. Legend has it that cold food originated from Jin Wengong's mourning for Jie Zhitui. Later, Emperor Xuanzong of the Tang Dynasty was moved by this story. In the twentieth year of Kaiyuan, he ordered the world to "eat cold food at the grave" and listed it as one of the "Five Rites" at that time. Cold food and Qingming are only one day apart. For the map, people simply decided to sweep graves in Qingming, which was more popular in Ming and Qing Dynasties. After the founding of New China, people also chose to sweep the tombs of martyrs on this day to remember the revolutionary ancestors.
"Every year, there is still the wind of elders everywhere. "There has always been the habit of sweeping graves. Every time we go to Tomb-Sweeping Day, the descendants of each family will bring wine, fruit, paper money and firecrackers to the graves of their ancestors, offer food to their ancestors, then burn paper money, light firecrackers to pray for blessings, cultivate new soil for the graves, plant some flowers or fold some green branches and put them in front of the graves, and then kowtow to worship. Finally, they must eat the wine before going home.
It rains every year in Tomb-Sweeping Day, and it flies like tears! I am also used to Tomb-Sweeping Day looking at getting wet; If we make an exception on a sunny day, I always feel that this festival is incomplete, and some are incomplete. Perhaps, only such feelings and scenes can give some comfort to the lost soul!
The dead are gone, please cherish the present. In front of the tomb of Qingming, infinite sadness will be expressed, tears of worshippers will string together a string of wet memories, and warm spring breeze will not erase sad eyes. The long journey of life will not stop. The continuation of the family vein is a series of bold ellipsis. The old man's white hair is the most striking question mark in Tomb-Sweeping Day. Filial piety and support are the only correct choice, and also the best interpretation of Qingming by the descendants of the Yellow Emperor. Let filial piety exist day by day, insist on being kind to parents and the elderly, stand in the gentle breeze blowing in the sunny days of warm spring and April, don't face lifeless tombstones, faint sighs and endless self-blame, bear a cold heart and wail in the wind.
Qingming bamboo first met the bamboo forest in a Qingming fog. Great-grandfather's grave is in the deep mountains, and it takes a long mountain road to worship. In the early morning, it was foggy all over the sky, and the scenery a few meters away was very vague. It makes sense to choose this time to go out, because today I will go to several hills to worship my ancestors. I only remember that in the morning, my father walked behind with sacrifices, and I skipped in front, like a caged bird. I still seem to be humming, maybe. The mountain road winds and stretches, and weeds grow to my chest. We crossed fields, bypassed streams, climbed steep slopes, climbed several hills, and finally came to a canyon. Father shouted softly, "Don't run too fast, there are bamboo forests ahead." I answered, but I kept running into the canyon. Father shook his head at the back and smiled slightly. He knows that I like bamboo very much. Close the door, close the door. There was a rustling sound in the mountain wind, and I finally saw the bamboo forest around the corner. The green tide has taken root in my life since then and can never be erased. The leaves above the bamboo forest jump and fall with the wind, making a chilling sound, just like a green torrent, all the leaves are heading in one direction. The slender and green leaves, like boats in the rapids, are advancing rapidly. Standing among thousands of bamboos, I only feel that I have been conquered by green. Tall bamboo soars at the top of the canyon, covering the sky and playing with white clouds. Small bamboos, just emerging from the ground, are as big as my fingers, and clusters of tiny boats splash on the branches and join the struggle in the fog. The shock of green is overwhelming, and thousands of emeralds are swaying in front of me. I stroked bamboo, big and small, and walked around the forest, only feeling that everything was so wonderful. Father put down the sacrifice on his shoulder and stood in the forest, also a little lost in thought. There is a clear birdsong in the forest. It's tits, jumping on the green branches and enjoying the breath of heaven and earth. The gurgling sound is a clear spring seeping from a crack in the rock as clear as jade. Cold fog seeps water droplets on the bamboo, and some slip down the bamboo seams, leaving traces of streams flowing; Some swayed from the tip of the blade a few times, then swung away playfully and plunged to the ground like a meteor. Later, perhaps the first ray of sunshine that penetrated the fog in the forest awakened my father. He cut off a thumb-sized bamboo with a small knife and handed it to me. Patted my little head and shouted, "Come on, we still have a lot to go." Maybe he is young, or maybe he is not deep enough for his ancestors. Lonely graves in barren hills always make me feel gloomy. If my father is not around, I can assure you that I will cry. That year, Tomb-Sweeping Day did not leave too many memories about its ancestors, but always remembered the bamboo forest, the green and ethereal world. I also remember the bamboo cut by my father for me, the bamboo cut into a flute on a sunny night, and the bamboo blown on my father's lips. That melodious and deep voice runs through my whole childhood and my whole life. Yes, and then I grew up. I have read many poems about bamboo, such as "There are three or two peach blossoms outside the bamboo, and there are duck prophets in the spring water heating." Is it Su Shi's? I read that "the sound of bamboo calls the washerwoman to return, and the lotus leaves are collected in front of the fishing boat." This is Wang Wei's. I have read many books and seen many people draw bamboo, such as Zheng Banqiao's, but I always feel lost. There is no poem in that ethereal world, and no brush can replace it. Yes, at least in my heart.