自有花开时作文_花开自有花落时古诗

Self-pollination作文1

A long time has passed since the mother started picking flowers for me. She often spent her days with waterpots, squeezing water and fertilizing the soil, switching places to prevent sunlight from reaching the plants. Over time, they grew into only stems without petals. But despite this, she never gave up on trying. The mother worked hard all day, even when it was dark outside. I waited until morning to see her come back. She had been waiting since earlier in the afternoon, and finally, we saw that same flower bloom.

"When will this 'self-pollination' stop?" she asked as they began. The phrase seemed mysterious to me at first, but now it made sense. "Self-pollination is when something can reproduce on its own."

It was strange because even though the plants didn't have petals, they still worked hard for the same purpose.

"When will this 'self-pollination' stop?" she repeated after a few moments, as the flowers began to bloom again. It didn't matter how long I waited, no matter where we stood, or how often we rested; it was just me, ever changing my intention each day.

Despite the struggles and difficulties I faced, I kept hoping for this moment of change. Sometimes, I even tried to stop myself from achieving my goals. But time seemed to move faster than anything I could control. Still, despite all these struggles, I couldn't give up on hope.

"Hope is a force, but it needs to be strong enough to hold onto one idea long after the initial spark ignites in your mind."

Self-pollination作文2

A tree once stood with leaves growing on its branches. When I first saw the tree, it seemed like it had been waiting for me to see it bloom. The wind would blow, or the rain would pour down, and then the tree itself would turn from leaf to leaf, as if making a promise of something great to come.

It didn't seem magical at first, but over time, I learned that this process was part of nature's way of growing. The leaves had waited for me, waiting for the right moment when they could see the light, maybe even before they began to bloom themselves. It took patience and quiet moments of reflection for them to finally open up their true selves.

"Time is a slow journey."

"When will this 'self-pollination' stop?" she repeated after another few minutes passed, as more branches and leaves appeared on the tree. She held out her hand to me, offering it the same chance that I had held out before. The light in my eyes was still there: a warmth and beauty that only grows stronger with each passing moment.

"Time is a slow journey,"

"When will this 'self-pollination' stop?" she said again, but now her voice seemed to calm down slightly. I knew that the tree would one day return to its natural state, as though it had been waiting for me the whole time.

She wouldn't stop trying, even when her hands were still shaking from moments of reflection on the tree's life. She'd just keep going, moving each moment further and further ahead until... something happened that made sense.

"When will this 'self-pollination' stop?" she repeated once more, as if to ask me what I would do. I knew then that whatever was left in her spirit would come to me when the time came for it to arrive through these gentle strokes of nature."

Now that I thought about it, I could see how much effort and patience this process had taken on both sides of the tree. The leaves waited with the tree, waiting for its own story.

Self-pollination作文3

A long time ago, I was a child living in a small village. My father used to take care of the land and the family's garden each year, but he didn't like keeping his flowers and plants to himself. One day, my mother visited her neighbor, who had been living on a vacant lot near my house for years. She told me that there was something strange about the flower bed where I grew up.

It was bright and cheerful, with flowers blooming in every direction. But when she looked closer, she saw something even more unexpected—a flower bed with dead, dying flowers scattered all over it. Her mother was very worried, but my father thought that he should take care of his neighbors as well. When they moved out after my parents got married, I grew up without knowing what was going on inside my neighbor's family garden.

"You can't let your children grow in the wrong circumstances," my father said when I asked him about it. "They are not allowed to be growing like this." The word 'wrong' seemed to bother him more than any other word, and he didn't have the strength to talk to me anymore.

"No, no, I will,"

after a long time of talking, my father said. "I want them to be happy, to grow in this way." He gave me a flower and a small box to put it in. Each day, he worked with the flowers, making changes and additions until they were as beautiful as before.

"If you don't give them your full attention, they'll never reach their potential,"

my father explained. "They are not meant to be left like this all by themselves." He placed a flower in the box and watched it with a look of hope that I wouldn't stop giving it more care. The flowers began to bloom again, this time with vibrant colors and delicate petals.

"When will these flowers bloom?"

my father continued, holding the flower close in his hand as if he was trying to communicate something deep inside.

That's how nature works—through a series of careful actions and small changes that can transform an ordinary flower into something amazing.

Self-pollination作文4

A few years ago, my sister moved into a new town, and she was really proud of her surroundings. The flowers in the town's garden were vibrant with color, each one doing its own thing to make the whole place look beautiful. But then I came, discovered this strange pattern that seemed impossible: there was no growth at all! No plants, no trees, just a bunch of dead flowers scattered everywhere.

My sister didn't give up on her garden either. She spent hours looking around, making sure every flower had the right kind of care and environment for it to grow. But when I arrived, the dead flowers seemed more threatening than anything else. They were scattered all over, like a mess that wasn't being fixed.

"They're not supposed to die, are they?"

my sister asked after some time passed. "No, no one wants them to die." She added, thinking about how I had seen them grow back in my own garden when I moved out of town. But she didn't feel the same sense of hope that I did.

"The only thing you can do is let it live,"

she continued, "because if it doesn't, there will be no one to care for it." The dead flowers seemed to move slowly, their colors changing and fading away over time. But eventually, they began to bloom again, their vibrant colors returning in full flushes of color.

"When will these flowers bloom?"

my sister repeated this question after another period of waiting, holding the flower close as it returned to life once more. It was a simple process, but it had such a profound impact on my sister's garden and her family's life that it made her feel so good knowing how they would look again.

Self-pollination作文5

A few years ago, my mother visited me in her small town to see how the flowers were doing. She told me about a boy who'd lived away for years, and the flowers around his garden had been dying all along. They didn't seem to be able to grow anymore; their colors had faded into obscurity. My mother thought it was time to fix this mess, but instead of fixing her own flowers, she focused on the boy's garden.

"If my flowers are dying, then mine will too,"

my mother said after looking at them for a while. "Because they don't mean anything anymore." She turned away from the garden and moved to her car, thinking about how much she had missed being able to look out on this patch of land with those vibrant colors in the sky.

"The only thing you can do is let it live,"

her words hung in the air as she drove away. The dead flowers did something amazing on their own—they began to bloom again, their colors returning once more. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin from the new blooms; that was the most beautiful thing about them.