Late Spring at Yi Garden

When I was a child living in the old city district, Yi Garden was just across the street, practically a garden at our doorstep. Though not as famous as the four renowned gardens, Yi Garden was delicate and elegant in its own way. Elderly people enjoyed drinking tea and chatting there, while children loved to play and hide-and-seek. Once, my cousin fell into one of the garden's ponds and was scolded severely after returning home soaking wet. The plum forest behind Chu Yue Pavilion was exceptionally beautiful when the plum blossoms were in full bloom, though at that time I didn't understand the refined sentiment behind the owner's verse: "Melancholy as the backyard's flavor fades, I hoe under the bright moon to plant plum trees." In late spring, Yi Garden features winding corridors connecting rocky outcrops and wind chimes hanging from the eaves. Turning past the wall of Biwu Courtyard, you'll see a chinaberry tree in bloom leaning against the clouds, its purple blossoms spreading like colored mist across the sky, signaling that "when the crab apple blooms, the flower season ends." Resting against a rock, the falling petals rustle like snow in the breeze, making me finally appreciate Xie Yi's poetic line: "Chinaberry blossoms scatter on the steps, their subtle fragrance rustling fine." The verdant shade hangs like a curtain, separating the garden from spring's dust. Yi Garden used to be a rather quiet little garden, but now, like all gardens, it's crowded with visitors. Perhaps it's because of the convenient transportation—subway and bus stops are right at the entrance.