Autumn - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The berries come to the autumnal air as the blooms come to the spring, in a triumphant hurrah of colour.
The autumn comes as a gospel choir, harmonised in such a way that celebrates each hue and shows how they belong together.
The autumn was the time of hugs, of evenings with warm drinks and warmer smiles.
We are every colour in the trees, my friends and I. We are the gold and reds that carpet the grass. In every breath the autumn is in us too, this feeling of nature flowing back and forth. It is a time for the dancing of spirits as we walk through the cozy hearth that is the park, that energising earthiness that somehow anchors yet propels.
I am a lover of the autumn, of the colours that are bold and homely, strong and yet a call to remember our Earth and all she gives in the harvest months. I could let my eyes soak in those scarlet maple-hands and the golden leaves that create more beauty than I'd ever dare ask for. It is the season of inner calm and a kindly stoicism etched in memories of joy.
The autumn has dressed herself for the coming season, donning her most vibrant hues. She has swept into our streets and woodlands with a humble boldness that invites the eye to see more than they otherwise might. The autumn takes her pirouette, her sweet turn on the stage all around, and we are so blessed to be given such beauty.
The trees are laughing once more, dressed in their carnival clothes, the gold and scarlet of the autumn days. They play about the earthy hues of the branch and trunk, proud flags in any sky. As they do I take in the freshly calm air with that hint of an earthly aroma, the fragrance of homeliness.
And so the autumn arrives with a buoyant lack of subtly, and how I love it so. For sure there are the browns that come as a comforting quilt to the earth, yet the rest are the hues of volcanoes, of firework sparks and festival hoopla. It is as if nature is calling out to the spring and the trees can't help but become as flowers, towering blossoms of flamed foliage to dance into the skies before tumbling as giant confetti to the sidewalks and verges.
The autumn comes with regal ease, content to arrive with slow grace. Though the first leaves have tumbled to the soil so rich with rain, most remain green, fluttering in the strengthening wind. And so, though I'm wishing for that garland of reds and golds, I must be as patient as she.
The autumn will soon be here, a child on tip-toe, excitement in each baby-step. She comes with the magic children breathe, to forge each leaf to gold or perhaps to the red of holly-berries. Each new day I awake, eyes raised to the strong arms of the trees, seeking the first promise of her dance, listening for the sweet rustling music that inspires the wild pirouettes of each earth-bound gift.
The green flags of the trees become sepia toned, waving in the southerly wind. Within the multitude of soft chocolatey browns there is gold shining through, and a blush that brings summer fruits to mind.
The flamboyant colours of the summer flowers below are soon echoed by the foliage above. It is a second chance to bloom, for the green to glow with new hues as pretty as any petal. It is the promise of the most beautiful rain, the warmest of snowflakes, golds and berry-reds under glossy water, sparkling under morning frost. It is those days before nature stands devoid of adornments and is breathtakingly beautiful just the same.
The autumn is our garland, the grand finale of a successful season. It is the parade we cherish, a grand dance of the foliage that came to brighten our days. It is the time of seeds bequeathed to the soils, of that which takes flight from branch to earth to become new earth itself. It is the gift of the old to the new, supporting, enriching, bringing health as is the natural way of life.
The leaves dance from branch to ground, each a colourful flag without strings or pole, free to roam. I feel the breeze, rich with the aroma of the earth, the keeper of the seeds for the springtime to come. There is a calmness, as if all the gold, berry-reds and browns that flutter about are a cozy quilt, bringing us the same peace as the nighttime. It is the time I once again see how the trees are clad in the many hues of the soil, see how their bark is their fingerprint, speaking to us of beauty in their silent way.
If a hurricane could meet a rainbow, if it could be calmed by the sweetness of a summer choosing to rest her vibrant song, that would be autumn to me. It is when the vibrant overture of life begins to signal for peace and calm. In my youth I thought it was a time to learn patience, to see the coming of winter and let days pass until the spring, no longer. Every season is a season of beauty, every day is something to savour, treasured for what it brings. Adversity is a chance to shine, to rise to challenge; abundance is a chance for joy and rest. So each of these days, as I embrace "what is" and seek ways to bring forth the goodness that "what could be," I feel more of the rainbow and less of the hurricane, am thankful for blessed rain and sunshine alike.
How can we be so in love with photographs and not each passing moment of life? How can we love so much a still leaf of gold and not dance with internal joy when one moves in the breeze or waltzes to join the mosaic of the ground? How can we not love that which brings us into the moment? The chilled rain, perfect spheres to quench the soils, as much as the honesty of wet eyes?
The divine conductor brings the soft serenade of the autumn. If comes as a serene music, at first quiet below the high notes of the summer, the ones that dance with a rambunctious joy. At first I'm not sure if I hear it, if it is truly there, and then I am. It comes like a lullaby, a mother's song, to soothe in the most beautiful way. It is the way life gives even when she must take, to show that our dance together is both eternal and wonderful. And so I love each note, this music that comes as reliably as sunrise.
It was the strangest autumn for time out of mind. The trees remained clothed in green until the middle of October and then all of a sudden were a riot of colour. It was as if the season jumped into the park instead of fading in as it usually would, and was all the more magnificent for doing so. Upon the newly softened mud were the acorns - from green to pale brown, none yet the rich hue of children's story books. The air was cooler with a tincture of earthiness - just a hint that brought to mind the cozy evenings and warm soups to come.
Autumn's sweet breath chills the sleepy land: misty hill, moor and glen. Amethyst blooms fade under shafts of faltering light, hindered by soft-spun cloud. The lingering sun kisses outstretched wings, bound for warmer shores, whilst berries harken to those that stay, a gift of red, replacing summer petals that curl delicately into the sable earth.
Autumn fades in like a softly sung hymn. There is a rosiness to the leaves that wasn't there only a week ago. Soon the hills will be aflame, a riot of gold and red. For that brief time our eyes will rise from the damp concrete paths to the beauty above, watching each leaf as it makes its final dance to mother earth, the welcome mat for winter laid out.
The summer petals have curled brown to mother earth, soon be hidden beneath a garland of scarlets and golds. I thank God for the colours, for without them the autumn would be a time of sadness, to watch what was new and green only months before decompose into the soil. Instead it is a gateway to rebirth, to renewal. Long after the beauty of the leaves has enriched our hearts, their goodness enriches the soil, ready for the spring to come.
Darwin hops along next to me in his red rubber boots, I hate the bright colour but I was lucky to forage those. He twirls as much as he walks and jumps with both feet into every damn puddle. His beige pants, usually spotless from our pristine hide-out, are now splattered with fresh grime. He's as happy as a sparking fire and his eyes are more alight than I've seen lately. Maybe this was worth it after all. He chats excitably about the wind, holding his fingers up first splayed and then closed, then he blows softly on his hand. My little smarty-pants has discovered air. He knows to be quiet with his voice, we can't advertise more than necessary that there is a child on the streets. I'm armed and dangerous but I'm not a whole gang. At the park he forgets himself, he screams with awe, then tears around in circles. He dives into the vibrant crunchy piles and throws them, rolls in them, crushes them in his gloved hands. In this rare distraction I neglect to notice we have become encircled.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
This autumn day has my sprits soaring beyond the colourful boughs above. The brilliant shafts of sunlight caress the carpet of reds and golds before me, laid out like a carpet for a royal. Each breath of the fresh air fills me a sense of life that almost makes me want to shout out loud, just to hear my voice echo amidst the trees - like a brave warrior of old. I've lived here so long that these rough-barked beauties are like loyal friends. I would hug them if there weren't so many of the neighbours about, sweeping leaves and walking their dogs. The dogs look so happy, like furry embodiments of smiles. They're so alive in the sunshine that I just want to run my hands through their fur while their tails wag in excitement. But I have a great deal to get done today, and if I work hard I'll get it all done and still have enough time left over for a movie and pizza with the girls.
To the ancient oak in the backyard her entire life so far had been like one sunny afternoon, passing quickly and soon forgotten along with all the other days that had no stand-out excitement or tragedy. At fifteen she was ready to explore the entire world, learn languages and new cultures. But with her back to the rough bark and several acorns poking into her jeans like beach pebbles she cast her eyes to the autumn sky. Her life in this place was coming to an end, she could feel it. But unlike this waning season she was heading into the summer of her life not the winter. She had her youth ahead of her, stretching out like an untrodden path into the mist, it's destination unknowable. Her eyes caught the chords of light that streamed through the already yellowed leaves. One day she would do the same under a Mango tree in the Caribbean, under a pine tree in Russian boreal forest, under the boughs of an olive grove in Italy.,,
As I step over the blushed leaves I blow a kiss to mother earth; may she sleep well these winter months to come under the blanket her daughters have cast down. The autumn winds already blown keen and the mornings bring us frost. We await, sending her love, until the spring comes to gently wake her from deepest slumber.
An autumn lullaby drifts in from the east bringing a flurry of change. The pace of life quickens, rain thickens and we walk on streets of gold. Summer flowers stay as memories, honoured by the vibrant oranges and reds that warm both heads necks. Out come the sable browns, stormy greys and midnight black. Night comes sooner and lingers into the morn, until banished by the tardy sun.
When I describe autumn I can smell the soft loamy earth air rendered damp by the sweet fall rains. In my minds eye I watch the leaves tumble on their final dance with the wind that gusts and dies only to return again. I raise my head to the gathering gathering clouds that obscure the sun with its reduced intensity. In that moment of creation, of bringing new art to life, I am living the experience. My chair is a damp earthen log half obscured by moss and lichen and in the foliage small mammals and birds skitter and hunt for their food. To describe autumn is to be there in heart, body and soul. Perhaps that's why I write about it so often, just to experience it, be submerged in it, to walk the leaf strewn paths over again even in the depths of winter or scolding summer heat.
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.