那年，我们背起行囊
别过街巷最后一声喧响，
走向大地敞开的、带着青草香的怀抱。

我曾指着那片鹅黄嫩绿，
在舌尖预演鸡蛋炒韭菜的鲜香——
“多馋人啊！”余音旋在风里 ，                                                                                                                                                                 
 老农眼角的皱纹漾开温厚的笑：
“娃儿，那是刚冒头的麦苗。”

我怔立田埂，仰望着白云——
原来课本里的知识
与脚下的泥土，
竟隔着一场春雨的距离。

从此，晨露漫过鞋帮时，
我们咬着牙把锄头握稳，
任水泡在掌心慢慢绽成——
带泥土香的茧花。

日头把影子拉成麻绳，
汗珠砸进土里，
像散落的豆粒，                                                                                                                                                                                              我们俯身，将它种进春泥。

雾缕绕着草垛，
暮归，扁担的重量已嵌进
稚嫩的肩胛——
任血液在脊背吟出咸涩的诗行。

灯芯舔亮土屋，                                                                                                                                                                                              
寒风在窗外刻着冰纹，                                                                                                                                                                                    乡愁抢先爬上汗湿的枕头。
而茧掌，却在梦里
抚着荒土。
任掌温去吻醒手的骨节。

天刚麻麻亮，
锄尖发出重重的询音，                                                                                                                                                                                    叩问着沉睡的生土。
双臂在荒坡间往复，
直到手掌磨出
更多、更亮的花茧！

就这样，把青春深深钉进大地，
泥土回赠骨血里的坚韧
和一个名字：知青。

如今镜中飞雪落满鬓角，                                                                                                                                                                             
那片田垄已经荒芜，                                                                                                                                                                                       唯有那棵老柳，年轮里蓄着我们的体温，
在春风里灼灼发烫。