Autumn - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
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.
A single golden leaf pirouetted down an invisible spiral of breeze, spinning through the air as it let itself be carried down. It shook slightly, as if it could have been whisked away any second by the grip of an icy wind, but it kept floating down the twirling course. It blew past my face and landed lightly on the ground, the shiny, vibrant colour standing out against the ambers and bronzes beneath it. It was so delicate, I wanted to reach down and pick it up and hold it close to my heart, smoothing out any creases, but something told me that it belonged there, this corpse of what was once summer.
Caramel leaves tumbled to life by brisk autumnal notes that roused them from slumber, requesting a last wistful dance before a wintry embrace would claim them.
Rachel trotted through skeletal trees, their branches so bare that she could have counted the leaves on each and every one as she passed by. The trees were skirted by pools of autumn gold and rust coloured leaves. When the wind blew the pools animated. Leaves took to the air in an elegant dance, pirouetting around the tree trunks to their own orchestral rustling. When the wind calmed, the dance ended and the leaves landed to form new pools that looked identical to the ones they were in before they started to frolic.
As the days wane, the nights close in and the trees don their vibrant hues, a chill creeps into the air. Not the bite of wintry blusters, but just a nip to let us know a new season is at hand. The wide avenue is lit by the first rays of the day, shining through a thin layer of grey cloud like a stain glass window. No more are the trees their virescent hues of spring and summer, but are scarlets and gold. In just a few weeks they will stand naked in the frozen air, bereft of their gaiety. Already the usual grey of the concrete sidewalk is adorned with their transient beauty. As I walk to the bus stop in my black woollen coat, I deliberately tread on each one to hear the crunch. Just ahead a leaf tumbles from it's weary branch, it twists and rocks as it falls through the almost still air. I pause to listen for the sound it makes as it joins it's brethren on the ground, but it is lost in the drone of the traffic.
The estate's shaggy autumnal decrepitude lay illuminated by the weak rays of a sallow sun. At night you could be anywhere under the stars, but even under these feeble rays the graffiti and vandalism dominate the street. I hear in the leafy suburbs they walk on carpets of gold and crimson, that their biggest problems are how to sweep them up. I guess the cheap houses just don't get the fancy trees, our leaves are just brown and soggy from the night's rain. The most colourful thing is the garbage. mostly flyers from some all night rave that blow across unkempt lawns and between dilapidated cars. The fine mist that hangs in the air will soon give way to become a steady rain and my thinning shirt cannot keep out the November chill. With leaden feet I turn my back and head in to my cocoon, my home, the only place I can make beautiful, cozy, uplifting.
Through the mist of this fall morning the scarlet leaves are little more than a red haze. I cannot tell if the sky is blanketed with the grey clouds of yesterday, but regardless my almost defunct umbrella is tucked firmly under arm, squeezed against the duffle coat I've worn these past ten years. There was a time when this seasonal cycle meant shopping for new fashions, Halloween candies and those pumpkin treats that were loaded with sugar and cream. But since the collapse of the world markets we live more simply and sometimes I think with more depth and intensity to our emotions Now that technology is only for the super rich we spend time making, doing, writing, singing. "Old me" would think "new me" a hippy, but that's just a testimony to how much I've grown, how much we've all grown. In this brave new world we savour the apples of fall though we have no sugar for pie, we delight in abundance of turnips for roasting and we give thanks to God for the life of the pig we take.
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.
Autumn's hand was lying heavy on the hillsides. Bracken was yellowing, heather passing from bloom, and the clumps of wild-wood taking the soft russet and purple of decline. Faint odours of wood smoke seemed to flit over the moor, and the sharp lines of the hill fastnesses were drawn as with a graving-tool against the sky.
An autumn gust blows
chilling the air and blowing
the clouds and the trees
The leaves blow away
in a final flight they dance
beautiful yet dead
Is it cruel or kind
that the leaves never truly
do perceive their flight?
Autumn, the end of the beginning. I feel the cold wind blow against me, picking up the golden orange leaves from the ground; the golden and red colours fly about like a fire. But even with the wind and the rain, there is a distinct beauty about autumn the colours and the smells join to make a picturesque scene.
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.
I look out of my window and admire the crisp copper leaves falling off the trees that sway gently in the Autumn wind. The clouds overlap each other, making the sky a gloomy gray. Downstairs, I smell the sweet scent of cinnamon apple candles burning while Mom makes a pumpkin pie in the kitchen. I warm my hands up by the fire, drinking hot cocoa that I'd been clutching in my hands to keep warm. I close my eyes and imagine me frollocking through the leaves as they sway up in the air and float back down, and I can't help but let out a smile at this thought. Oh what a joy Autumn is, is it not?
I remember the country, the country as it was, the wind dancing with the first autumn leaves, painted in all kinds of beautiful reds and oranges. I remember the vibrant world, the morning light peeking through my window, the world unfolding in vivid colours, truly alive.
It was a brisk fall day, the perfect day for an Autumn walk. The clouds scuttled across the sky, the sun breaking out in bursts as I made my way up Grippen Hill. Leaves fell in herald of the coming winter, and my thoughts drifted a bit, thinking of the years that had passed. Strangely, I felt young again, something I have not felt in a long time.
The Artist's pallet was never so rich,
More colours than imaginings inspire
The blandest soul or unerring eye
To wander abroad in wonder,
To gorge and drink
Their fill of nature's Autumnal fire.
The water lies sleek on the sidewalk, darkening the sun-bleached grey to a glossy black. In the almost twilight Erin can hear the hiss of the car tires, kicking up a mist of fine droplets. It is a promise of the fall to come and automatically her eyes flick to the trees for confirmation but the leaves are already loosing their colour to the encroaching night. She makes a mental-note to remember to look up on the way to the bus in the morning, assuming she gets up on time and isn't late as usual.
Golden themes, golden dreams, the stage curtain of summer falls. Streets of regal carpets, air of earth's perfume, wheat fields shawn low. The apple of the seasons, the crown of the year, autumn comes as the sweetest song. Hearts warm as temperatures retreat, she's a kiss to the summertime gone, a love letter to the winter to come.
Crisp golden leaves lay like a blanket on the forest floor. Startled birds shot from the empty branches like a bullet, as twigs snapped and leaves crunched under my feet. The sun hung low in the sky, it's rays shining through the last few hanging leaves, illuminating the auburn, yellow and orange veins that ran through them.
These days her shoes had no grip. The sidewalk was always wet and the threat of rain loomed in the evenings. Mornings were dim and cold. Walks to the bus stop were slow. Edie watched as her breath smoked and rose above her. September was ending.
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.
The leaves crunched beneath my feet as I strolled down the street. Occasionally, one would fall past me, lightly swaying as the air gently carried it to the ground. The air was crisp, the kind of cold that made you feel alive when you breathed it in. My world was painted red and orange, and I caught the scent of cinnamon from a nearby cafe. I spotted it about ten feet in front of me, a pile of pumpkins and bales of hay flanked either side of the door. I sighed, relishing the feeling of fall. It was something I'd have to wait a whole year to have again.
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.,,
Enchanting dawn of autumn days,
So clear, so cool, so calm,
O'er all creation breathing forth
Thy sweet refreshing balm!
The woodland dons its brightest hue,
Its rainbow-tinted gown;
Each soft and dreamy breeze that blows
Brings showers of crimson down.
Old earth now groans beneath her load
Of grain and fruited vine,
That thickly hangs o'er orchard wall,
And drips with mellow wine.
The birds fly lazily above,
Bathed in thy misty light,
While on the hillside loll the kine
In morning's gold delight.
Wrapped in thy folds of golden mist,
This restless soul of mine
Is lulled into a blissful dream
Of peace and love divine.
The leaves had almost all fallen off, creating a sea of fiery colors that crunched beneath our feet. The bare skeletons of the trees shivered in the crisp, autumn breeze and a few dried up leaves rolled across the walkway like tumbleweeds.
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.
The tossing lights of a windy autumn evening were shimmering on the wet pavement, and faces looked spectral white in the morris-dance of shine and shadow.
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.
The chill autumn wind raced through the avenues, brittle leaves whorled into frenzied tornadoes. Gold, scarlet and deep brown were summoned for transitory dances before being deposited once more on the lonely sidewalk.
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.
The New York street will soon be it's subdued wintry hues. Already the deep greens of summer have morphed into their autumnal colours: reds, golds and browns. The commuters on the sidewalks have made their transition too, red scarves don dark suits, umbrellas at the ready.
The autumn trees that line the avenue bring a regal feel to this London street, even the mail boxes that are cherry all year round feel more seasonal. Above the clouds keep the white puffiness of a summer sky, but soon that will change. Grey days are ahead - all the more reason to absorb the gaiety of the trees and the bright sunshine that falls.
Orange and Yellow
Bright colors in the meadow,
Brightening like sunshine.
Falling from the tall old trees,
Are the bright, beautiful leaves.
What a beautiful sign!
The time of rain and storms,
Letting seasons perform.
All the leaves have touched bottom,
Let’s sing “Hooray! Here is Autumn!”
Golden brown carpet of leaves, crunch underfoot, quiver in gusts of wind. Shaggy autumnal decrepitude, dishevelled beauty in gold and scarlet. Earthy smell of autumn, air had the first bite of late autumn, beech tree at the height of it’s autumnal gold, bathed in the yellow warmth of the autumn sun, air fresh but without a chill. An October chill spread across the neatly manicured lawn.
Fall leaves swirling, tumbling, pirouetting, flip-flop, crunching, rustling, montage of colour, nature's collage, like a watercolour, ripening apples, pumpkin patch, mist, grape vines loaded, horse chestnuts fall, harvest, poppies, gathering swallows, migrating birds gather, bears fattening preparing for winter, horse chestnut burrs falling to chilled leaf covered grass.
The autumn sky was drenched in hues of oranges, pinks and purples while the trees exhibited rage and fury as their colors had made their final flight to the soil. I had been looking out my window for years wondering how colors trilled and sang contentment and delighted me.