Rita was crouching in the metal gazebo garden, adjusting a glass vase. The April wind carried the fragrance of roses. The fresh green grass on the lawn surrounded the aluminum alloy columns of the steel frame for gazebo. Through the gaps in the double-layered roof of the steel metal gazebo's canopy, one could see the clouds floating in mid-air.
The double-layered canopies crisscrossed above their heads, just blocking the direct sunlight while allowing the through wind, laden with the scent of the plants in the garden, to rush in unhindered. Rita reached out and caught a falling cherry blossom petal, smiling as she said that the double-layered roof of this steel frame for gazebo was like opening a window to the sky. "Even the wind knows to linger here," she said.
Rita moved the long table to the center of the metal gazebo garden. There were freshly picked strawberries piled on a white porcelain plate, and in a glass jar was the litchi honey water brewed last night.
When night fell, the lights installed on the roof of the gazebo lit up. The warm light flowed along the curve of the aluminum alloy, casting the shadows of the zinc steel canopy onto the ground, which looked like a breathing metal painting.
"Do you remember how torn you were when choosing the materials last year?" Rita added a spoonful of mint tea to my cup and ran her fingertips over the smooth surface of the column. "Now I understand why you insisted on the steel metal gazebo. How beautiful it must be here when it rains."
Before Rita could finish speaking, the mobile phone on the table rang. Her friend Pearl said she should come to the metal gazebo garden to experience the courtyard life under the night.
I leaned against the corner of the steel metal gazebo and watched as Rita's figure crisscrossed in the light and shadow cast by the lights on the roof of the gazebo. Suddenly, I remembered what the designer said during the construction: "A good building should be a breathing container that can hold sunlight, wind and rain, and more importantly, people's stories."
Brewing the spring night into a jar of gentle wine — it turns out that the most beautiful sense of art has never been a static form, but rather a poem jointly written by the building and life when people laugh, talk and embrace the passage of time within it.
