秋遇 - 错季花开

HZ Tang

秋风吹过来，植物上了一层霜；

像白了头的老人，没了少年狂。

前院一颗君子兰，错季花开：

金色花蕊，红色花瓣，火火红颜。

周边枯萎的绣球花，满脸秋的无奈。

像鹤立鸡群，花儿羞红了脸庞。

秋天开着春天的花，让季节左右为难。

曲高和寡，君子兰只能孤芳自赏，

静听路人，关于基因突变的调侃：

“不然怎能解释，你长着春天的模样？”

花儿反对：”你怎么不说，老夫少妻的例外？”

人无法反驳 - 那的确不是基因的流浪。

君不见少妻的老叟，在装少年郎？

用少妇的如花美丽，延寿老心肝。

我吹着花吹过的风，我懂花儿狂；

我走在花道上，欣喜老蚌生珠的爽。

44岁再当爹，女儿给了我一个小心脏。

她旺盛的青春活力，让我相信来日方长！

错季花开，老夫少妻，老蚌生珠，

都是例外。

生命共同的梦想，何尝不是为了 -

春暧花开、岁岁重阳？

附：

ChatGPT神力，将我的遐想变成优美的英文诗章，

好像深秋的花园里，蹦出一伙开心的君子兰：

**A Bloom Out of Season**







The autumn wind blows softly by,

And frost adorns the plants, a sigh—

Like an old man whose hair turns white,

No longer wild, nor full of might.

In the front yard, a Clivia blooms,

Out of season, breaking rules:

Golden stamens, petals red,

A fiery beauty, bold and spread.

Around it, withered hydrangeas lie,

Rusting quietly, their colors die.

Like a crane among the hens it stands,

The flower blushes, shy of hands.

Autumn holds spring's blooms in grace,

A season caught in awkward place.

The Clivia, high and proud, alone,

Finds beauty in its quiet throne—

And listens as the passersby,

Mock the oddity of its sky-high cry:

“Can genetics explain your form,

A flower that defies the norm?”

The flower, with a gentle sigh,

Replies, "What of an old man's bride?

Isn't there an exception there,

In love's own twisted, tender care?"

The onlookers fall silent, caught,

For not all truths can be taught—

The beauty of youth in a timeworn face,

A woman’s grace gives youth its place.

I’ve felt the winds the flowers feel,

I’ve walked the path where dreams are real,

And in the oyster’s quiet depth,

I know how pearls in silence slept.

At forty-four, I became a father again,

my daughter, a spark to my tired heart.

Her boundless youth, her endless laughter.

taught me the hope of a fresh start.

A flower out of season, love so strange,

The oyster’s pearl, the lover’s change—

All these are rare, exceptions grand,

Yet all are part of life’s vast plan.

For what is life, if not the dream,

Of spring's bright bloom,

of rivers' gleam,

Of flowers rising, years going by,

Of autumn’s warmth and winter’s sigh?