【散文】我最喜欢的季节散文500字：春天是一封来信

阳台上的第二封信

去年冬天，阳台那盆柠檬树彻底枯了。叶子掉光，枝条干得发白，我用指甲刮开一点皮，里面是褐色的，就把它连盆挪到墙角，没舍得扔。我妈说再等等，它根还活着。等就等吧，整个冬天它站在墙角，像一个不说话的人。

三月中旬我给它浇水，水浇下去，半天不渗。就在那次，我在最底下那根主枝的分叉处看见一点绿，小得不像话，像谁用指甲尖蘸了一点绿颜料，轻轻按在那里。我不敢确定，第二天又去看，它还在，旁边又多了一粒。再过一周，那处冒出三片叶子，叶脉清清楚楚，绿得发亮，像刚洗过。我蹲在盆边看了很久。一棵我以为死了的树，在没人注意的两个月里，一直在底下悄悄地准备。

春雨是后半夜来的。早上推开窗，土腥味混着湿石头的气味涌进来，栏杆上挂着水珠，空调外机的铁皮被洗得发亮。雨不响，落在遮阳棚上是一层极轻的沙沙，像有人在很远的地方翻书。楼下那排香樟被雨压得低头，抬头时甩出一片水雾。整条街的颜色都深了一号，又都亮了一号。

雨刚停，楼下就传来孩子的笑声。先是一个人跑过去的脚步声，接着两三个孩子一起笑，笑声又脆又密，在两栋楼之间弹来弹去。他们踩着水洼跳，每踩一下，笑声就高一分。有个妈妈在窗口喊别踩了，喊完自己先笑了。我扶着栏杆听，那笑声跟雨后的空气一样，是新的。

我常想，春天是寄给每个人的信，一年一封，从不失信。信里写着：枯的会再绿，停的会再走，你以为结束的事多半没有结束。只是这信不催读，它摆在枝头那一粒绿上，摆在半夜的雨声里，摆在孩子踩水的笑声里，谁抬头，就寄给谁。我回过一封，就是今年春天，我把那盆柠檬树从墙角搬回了栏杆边。

The Second Letter on the Balcony

Last winter the lemon tree on our balcony died completely. Every leaf fell, the branches dried to a pale gray, and when I scraped a bit of bark with my fingernail the wood beneath was brown. I moved the pot to the corner of the balcony and could not bring myself to throw it away. My mother said wait, the roots may still be alive. So we waited. All winter it stood in the corner like someone who had stopped talking.

In mid-March I watered it, and the water sat on the soil for half a day without soaking in. That was the morning I saw a speck of green at the fork of the lowest main branch, absurdly small, as if someone had dipped a fingernail in green paint and pressed it there lightly. I was not sure, so I went back the next day; it was still there, with another speck beside it. A week later three leaves had unfurled at that spot, their veins sharp, shining green as if freshly washed. I crouched by the pot for a long time. A tree I had believed dead had been quietly getting ready down at its roots for two months, unnoticed.

The spring rain came in the small hours. When I opened the window in the morning, the smell of earth mixed with wet stone rushed in. Water beads hung on the railing, and the metal shell of the air-conditioner unit had been washed bright. The rain made almost no sound; on the awning it was a faint rustle, like someone turning pages far away. The row of camphor trees downstairs bowed under the rain and flung sprays of mist when they rose. Every color on the street deepened by one shade and brightened by one shade.

The rain had barely stopped when the laughter of children rose from below. First the footsteps of one child running past, then two or three laughing together, the laughter crisp and dense, bouncing between the two buildings. They jumped into the puddles, and each splash pushed the laughter one notch higher. A mother called from a window to stop splashing, then laughed at her own call. I listened with my hands on the railing. That laughter was as new as the air after rain.

I often think spring is a letter mailed to everyone, one a year, never late. It says: the withered will green again, the stopped will move again, and what you took for an ending mostly is not one. But the letter does not demand to be read. It lies on that speck of green on the branch, in the sound of midnight rain, in the laughter of children stomping puddles. Whoever looks up receives it. I once replied to one, and my reply was this spring, when I carried the lemon tree back from the corner to the railing.

扫街人的春天

老周扫这条街第十一年了。五点出门，扫帚从巷口一路排到路口，竹枝扫帚擦着沥青，沙、沙、沙，他听这个声音就知道今天风大不大。

三月初，他比街上任何人都早知道春天来了。不是看日历，是扫到电线杆底下那堆落叶时，他看见缝里顶出来一点嫩绿，是去年落下的樟树籽发的芽，两片叶子还举着半个种壳。他扫帚在那儿停了一下，绕过去，把那一小丛留住了。第二天扫到下一个电线杆，又有一丛，他就一丛一丛地留。到三月半，这条街的墙根和砖缝里，他保住了一片新绿，高的没脚踝，风一过，齐齐地点头。早点摊的老板娘笑他：老周，你扫叶子又留叶子，图什么。他不答，把扫帚放轻了些。

春雨下来那天他没躲。雨落在橘红色的工作服上，颜色深一块浅一块。他站在香樟底下等雨小一点，抬头看，老叶子在雨里一片一片往下落，落下来的叶子是红的，枝头冒出来的芽是黄的绿的小拳头一样的，一树同时在换衣服。他看了有几分钟，雨水顺着帽檐滴。他在街这头，香樟在那头，中间空着，谁也不催谁。

雨一停他就开扫，扫帚推着水往前走。学校门口人多了，孩子们笑着跑过水洼，书包在背上一颠一颠。一个小男孩故意绕开他跑，怕扫帚，老周把扫帚举起来，像让路一样让到一边。男孩愣了一下，回过头冲他笑，露出缺了的门牙。老周也笑，他的笑只动嘴角。那天他多扫了两段路，脚步比平时快。

这条街没人听老周说过希望两个字。他只是每天把街扫出来，把芽留住，把路让开。可十一年了，他比谁都清楚：这条街每一年都会新一次，一次都不落。他扫帚底下过的不是垃圾，是旧的一年。

Spring Through the Eyes of the Street Sweeper

Old Zhou had been sweeping this street for eleven years. He left home at five, and his broom laid stroke after stroke from the mouth of the lane to the crossroad. The bamboo broom rasped on the asphalt, sha, sha, sha, and from that sound alone he knew how hard the wind was blowing.

In early March he learned spring had come before anyone else on the street. Not from a calendar. Sweeping the pile of fallen leaves under a utility pole, he saw a sprout of tender green pushing up through the gap, grown from a camphor seed that fell last year, its two leaves still holding half the seed shell. His broom paused there, then swept around, leaving the little cluster behind. The next day at the next pole there was another cluster, so he kept them one by one. By mid-March, along the bases of walls and in the brick seams of the whole street, he had saved a stretch of new green, none of it ankle-high, all nodding together when the wind passed. The woman running the breakfast stall laughed at him: Old Zhou, you sweep up leaves and then keep leaves, for what? He did not answer, and he set his broom down more gently.

On the day the spring rain fell, he did not take shelter. The rain darkened patches on his orange work jacket. He stood under a camphor tree waiting for the rain to ease, looked up, and watched the old leaves letting go one by one, red as they fell, while the buds on the twigs came out yellow-green, shaped like small fists. The whole tree was changing its clothes at once. He watched for several minutes, rain dripping off the brim of his cap. He stood at this end of the street, the tree at that end, the space between them empty, neither hurrying the other.

The moment the rain stopped he started sweeping again, the broom pushing water forward. The school gate filled with people, children laughing as they ran across puddles, backpacks bouncing on their backs. A little boy deliberately ran around him, afraid of the broom, so Old Zhou lifted the broom and stepped aside like someone clearing a path. The boy froze for a second, then turned back and grinned at him, showing a missing front tooth. Old Zhou grinned too, his smile moving only the corners of his mouth. That day he swept two extra blocks, his steps quicker than usual.

No one on this street ever heard Old Zhou say the word hope. He simply swept the street clean each day, kept the sprouts, and stepped aside for the children. But after eleven years he knew better than anyone: this street turns new once every year, without missing a single one. What passes under his broom is not litter. It is the old year.