Short essays describing scenery, prose poems describing scenery

The Butterfly Spring is famous for its springs and trees, so as soon as you enter the door, you can see them, and it is an ancient spring that looks like sky blue and emerald green, and the color is intoxicating. There is a tree next to the spring, also called the butterfly tree, because on April 5th, the tree is always full of butterflies, forming a landscape, and those butterflies do not stay on the tree one by one, but hang on the tree one by one, as if the tree is full of fruit, which makes people dazzled.

Since the landscape outside is so beautiful, the landscape seen from behind is even more beautiful.

It's much smaller. One by one, the butterflies stay on the shoulders of tourists, and on their heads, tourists do not hate them, but take them to take pictures and watch them together. It's a beautiful picture.

When we are tired, we sit by the man-made lake and enjoy it while resting, because the stones are of different colors, so we can see many colors: purple, blue, water, yellow, etc., and in the depths of the water there are fish swimming around happily...

A red sun gradually fell, and the wind gradually became weaker. Do you know how to write a prose poem about scenery? The following is a collection of prose poems that describe the scenery, I hope you can like our literary hail chapter.

Regreen, my grove.

Ants and flying insects in the grove.

These humble lives are coming with spring.

Beneath the dirt, I heard the sound of earthworms crawling and scribbling.

Slam your soft head into the dirt closed door.

In the meadow of the grove, I saw a herd of goats.

Swinging his long beard and bleating.

It shook my youth and soul.

A black goat is coming to me.

Tears of happiness hung on his face.

I like it. Put the dream in the spring.

It's called Spring Dream. I'm trying to dream of you.

But always in vain.

I like to wake up and turn my pillow over.

I heard that if you do this, your dream will come true.

In this spring, I want to be in trouble.

I'm turning over and over again.

I can't sleep alone. The birds that returned to their nests, even though they were clumped, carried back with the slanting sun.

With a flip of his wings, he dropped the slanting sun on the river;

The white reeds on the head are also made up for a moment.

The west mountain is drunk.

Birds go back together.

Autumn water and sunset two veins.

The flat boat collects the net and carries the fish back.

The wind moves the reeds and flowers fly.

When sighing, I was tired.

I often hate the years.

And a song of relief.

Joys and sorrows are in the palm of your hand.

The heart is chasing the twilight clouds.

I heard a bird calling.

In the city, there are a few primroses.

They did not dare to enter the city.

Only cheers and jumps outside the effect.

They are as simple as peasants in the countryside.

Let me sprout a kind of intimacy.

They're my friends.

It's like a relative I met by chance.

They are looking for unknown bugs.

Make a friendly voice to your peers.

Outside of the effect, I fell in love with the sound of birds.

In the midst of the bird's contence.