12月21日星期二 冬爷爷的手是寒风中那秃树枝? 是清晨窗户上笼着的轻纱似的白雾?是迎风绽放的腊梅?还是那尚未结冰的小河?也许,冬爷爷的手是老人头上的一缕缕银发;是人们深情的目光里一抹噙着幸福泪花的回忆;是孩子们打雪仗时欢快的笑声;是新年里人们笑得如花一般的脸庞 。 On the evening of December 21, my grandfather's hand was the bald branch in the cold wind. Was it a gauzy white mist hanging in the morning window? Was it bloom blooming in bloom? Or was it a river that had not yet frozen? Perhaps Grandpa Dong Hand is the head of a plume of silver hair; is the affectionate eyes in the touch of happiness tears of memories; is the children playing snowball cheerful laughter; is the New Year, people smile like a general face.