acorns - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
These embryonic oaks lay upon the grass, their browns a gift to the eyes. I could watch them a while, these acorns, let this moment of bliss extend as much as the light is spreading over the horizon... but the path wends onwards and there was much journeying ahead.
Acorns lie scattered on the autumnal leaves, rolling under the boots of those that flee. In another time or place the children might have stopped and made a game of throwing the smooth oak nuts at the trunks, targets marked in chalk. All that fills the air of the temperate woodland is the sound of the leaves, crunched and torn. Taryn watches from her horse, eye to her telescope...
The acorns crack underfoot. Their shells of every brown will be enough to alert the trackers to their path, but the consequences of slowing down are too severe. Those fragmented "hats," trodden into the soft autumn mud, are as good as a signpost to those that pursue.
In this first kiss of the autumn, with leaves blushed above, the acorns are as many hues as the morning sky. Above is the red, like God's holy fire, and below the tender colours of Mother Earth. The acorns sleep on the soft bed of the soil, tender greens, delicate browns that are almost cream and the ones that have begun to become the rich colour I love so much.
Sally sits under the spreading oak with dolly, her blue jeans contrasting against the myriad of browns. She spreads her hand over the damp ground to find her treasure - the cups from the acorns. The nuts themselves she discards; the tops with their rough exteriors and smooth insides are her "fairy cups," each one with a small "handle" below. On occasion they will be soup bowls or hats. When she spies an acorn still with a tinge of green she claps her hands. The queen fairy must have somethings special!
Acorns cover the ground beneath the spreading boughs. Each one is no larger than a throat lozenge and the same kind of brown as the christmas hazels. Benjamin scoops one up, holding it to the light. The shell is harder than he'd expected and though his fingers are chilled he can still feel the grooves that run from tip to base. The nut wears a "hat" just like the ones in his story books. Before his mother sees the acorn is safely stowed in his pocket - a stowaway for his collection.
The hat of the acorn contrasts darkly against the nut inside. Whereas the top has a blackish hue the shell has more red, like the hair of an auburn girl. Lila takes the hat and squeezes, watching it crumble to the frosty leaf fragments below. Then she takes the nut; no matter how hard she tries it stays unblemished. Lila flicks her hair from her eyes and drops the acorn to the mud. She stamps hard but no satisfying crunch comes. She has unwittingly planted what she sought to destroy. Her cheek dimples with a half-smirk. "Sleep well little oak."
The door has barely swung closed when Matilda's heart skips a beat. On the coffee table that was clear just that morning lie acorns and oak leaves in every shade from green to golden-tan and chestnut. "Little Squirrel," isn't that what Lee had always called her?
Tiger sits on the wall, acorns in hand. He takes each missile in turn and lets it fly up to the window pane above. They're the perfect projectile: ovoid for aerodynamic flight, heavy enough to throw, but not so hard as a stone. So long as the glass doesn't break no laws are broken, the worst he can get is a slap on the wrist for mischief. With his feet on the roadside he's even safe from being accused of trespass.
The acorns lie deep over the woodland floor, a testimony to the oaks that have stood for centuries past and will do so for centuries more. Along with the lobed leaves that fed them in the summer months, they bring a beauty to the ground that is missing the rest of the year. This ever changing tapestry of mother earth is a gift, a feast for starving eyes. Once we have drunk under the trees and toasted the bounty we let our hogs loose to fill their bellies and fatten before winter comes.
Of all the things on this woodland walk, it is the acorns I love best. They lie cold on the soil, bright against the dark rain soaked ground. Their shells glisten with drops poised to run home to earth, sitting proud on the impervious shell. They are every childhood tale, every meal for Squirrel Nutkin, the embodiment of fall. On my kitchen window sill sits a bowl of acorns from last season, dried and several hues more dull than these. With the bounty of the woodland tucked safe in my pocket I turn to take the path home.
Lily skipped along the woodland path, her new fall dress shining deep crimson in the dappled light. She stopped. A red squirrel sat in the path holding onto an acorn. One look a the little girl and it scampered up the nearest tree. "Mommy, do squirrels eat acorns?" Her Mom paused too.
"Yes, love, they do. And some birds, ducks, pigs.."
"Can I, Mom? Can I eat an acorn?" Her mom shook her head.
"No, Miss Petal. You'd get a very sore tummy." Lily's bottom lip jutted out and she slumped on her feet, tummy out. "Would you like to collect some for an art project?" Lily's eyes lit up just the same way they did at the candy store.
"Yes, yes, yes!" Lily danced jiggling her arms up and down, Mom took off her woollen hat and held it out.
"I reckon we can get a lot of acorns in here."
My New York apartment has seen many things, but the acorns of my nephew are something new. They lie over the soft leather the same way they once did on a woodland floor, the rustic browns complimenting it just as well as my fashionable vases and rugs. Perhaps a simple touch like this was all that was missing, a piece of nature in this metropolis. They can't stay there of course, but in the right hand crafted bowl they will be stunning. Already I'm planning our trip next fall, more acorns, more memories. Perhaps I'll be a decent uncle after all.
On the charred ground that was our woodland, can there be anything better than a perfect acorn? The acorns amid the autumn leaves burnt with everything else, it is the collections of the children that save us. They bring acorns by the pocket full, and add them to the canvass bag. These acorns are the woods of the future, not for us, for oaks grow slowly. But we will tend the saplings like children, guard them from the deer. One day they will indeed be mighty.
This London park is a dream come true for the squirrels. They dart amongst the grass and fallen leaves collecting the bounty of acorns. Were there less chill in the air I would stay, sit on a bench and take in the scene a while longer. The rumbling of the cars and red double deckers make the backdrop ambience, not to the tastes of some perhaps but signifies the comfort of home to me.
The acorn in my pocket is the best travelled oak nut in history. It has sat on a cafe table in Paris; it has been dried by the hot sun in Mumbai; it has been cast many colours by the lights of Tokyo and been chilled by a Russian winter. Now I take it, hold the tip to the sky like a rocket ready to launch, watching it reflect the daylight one more time. Then I crouch low to the soil of my homeland and bury the little seed with the wings of a prayer - perhaps in time she shall grow.
Another Ontario autumn has come, the trees stand coated with so many colours. The brick path is strewn with acorns as if by divine artistic hand. The ducks waddle from acorn to acorn, gobbling at them, crushing them in their bills. The days are waning, the heat of summer making way for a new chill wind.