My favourite season
　　Hello, my dear friends! What’s my favourite season? Let me tell you.My favourite season is spring. Spring is a lovely season, I think. There is a garden behind my house. In spring, the trees become green and the flowers give off fragrance(芳香). There are many butterflies and bees over the flowers. The butterflies are dancing and the bees are singing. Sometimes it rains. It usually rains quietly. The rain moistens(滋润) the trees and the flowers. I think they may say, “We’re very thirsty. The rain is very good. It can help us.” What a beautiful scene! Don’t you think so? And what about your favourite season,could you tell me?　　我最喜欢的季节　　你好，我最亲爱的朋友！我最喜欢的季节是哪个呢？让我告诉你。我最喜欢的是春天。我觉得春天是个可爱的季节。在我家后门有个花园。在春天，树变绿了，花也散发着芳香。有许多蝴蝶和蜜蜂在花丛中飞舞。蝴蝶在跳舞，蜜蜂在歌唱。有时候，会下雨，常常都是下得轻轻的。 雨水滋润了树木和花朵。我想他们会说，“我们好渴，这雨水真是及时。”真是一幅美丽的画面！你不这样认为吗？你能告诉我你最喜欢的季节吗？
希望有帮助，谢谢采纳

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　　spring is a hopeful and alive season.when you walk through a street in the rain,tasting the latex of the clear sky,don't you think it a joys of life? spring is coming,my dear friends.listen to the sound of the world and look at the new world.the wind blows our faces gently.however,is different from the winter wind. do you look forward a sunny day ? then you can sit on a chair in the garden with flowers are beautiful in the morning in march and ,wait for the sunrise quietly.is there anybody having a free spirit and tasting a cup of tea,in the new germination of grass.spring has been here already,my dear friends.when your heart is full of darkness and despair,don't forget your childish dream,and believe,sping is coming soon.

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　　Bathed in sunshine and fresh rain, watching the growth of life is thriving, my poetry began to radiation spring fragrance.
? ? impossible to describe, an angry sprouting seeds, in the spring come, I seem to have seen the flowers when the jingling sound. Children chasing Feia fly a kite, but was led Zheng Butuo line. Lake in elegant wicker, the stopped singing and waving off the butterfly, so that the vision of a beautiful purify the soul. Tit Zuiguo the children's laughter surging all day, and to the backbone.

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　　Spring Springs are not always the same. In some years, April bursts upon Virginia hills in one prodigious leap - and all the stage is filled at once, whole choruses of tulips, arabesques of forsythia, cadenzas of flowering plum. The trees grow leaves overnight.
In other years, spring tiptoes in. It pauses, overcome by shyness, like my grandchild at the door, peeping in, ducking out of sight, giggling in the hallway. "I know you're out there," I cry. "Come in!" And April slips into our arms.
The dogwood bud, pale green, is inlaid with russet markings. Within the perfect cup a score of clustered seeds are nestled. One examines the bud in awe: Where were those seeds a month ago? The apples display their milliner's scraps of ivory silk, rose-tinged. All the sleeping things wake up - primrose, baby iris, blue phlox. The earth warms - you can smell it, feel it, crumble April in your hands.
Look to the rue anemone, if you will, or the pea patch, or to the stubborn weed that thrusts its shoulders through a city street. This is how it was, is now, and ever shall be, the world without end. In the serene certainty of spring recurring, who can fear the distant fall?