flowers - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
These flowers that grow where I dwell, these tenacious blossoms of the city streets, born to take whatever comes their way and make beauty of it, I admire them. It is as if they call for some trees to accompany them, to make the city streets brighter, to refresh the air that we breathe. There are times I feel that they are nature's graffiti, that chaotic rebellious element cheering us on.
Where once were lawns, wild flowers grow - rainbow freckles to adorn the green. It started out as free honey when folks converted their grass to native species, anything to help the bees... but then it became a trend, a really good one.
What was only green a week before has become a garland of the most vibrant blooms. They are colours to weave dreams from, as soft and gay as any silk. How they come from earth, sunshine and rain feels akin to magic, even though the science is well known. The older I become, the more I see the miracle they are, better than any picture or movie could be.
The flowers had arrived by courier, a wiry man in a great hurry. He had thrust them into her arms with an unconvincing bow and turned more sharply than courtesy allows. The bouquet was all Ana's favourites, mini-sunflowers, white daisies and purple asters. It wasn't her birthday and she didn't have a new lover, she closed the front door and searched for a label, a card, anything to help her find the sender. But all she found was a key in an envelope. No instructions. No clue. No defining features or markings.
The sweet,almost sickly, smell of flowers cut through the soft scent of the morning's dewy grass.
...this morning she was carrying a small tissue wrapped bunch of pink roses and one of small white chrysanthemums. The stems were wet and she felt the dampness seeping through her woolen gloves. The flowers were tight-budded, but one was beginning to open and a transitory evocation of summer came to her...
The flowers lay scattered on the grass like frozen flames, bringing their cool blaze to the late spring morning.
Jazz held the flower in her fingertips so that it did not touch her scuffed palms. How was it that in all this chaos this delicate bloom should survive? It's stem was the hue of spring grass and it's brilliant purple petals so thin that even the air, made dim by the plumes of debris and smoke, could shine through them; bestowing an unearthly glow. The smile that had played at the corners of her cracked lips faded. This flower, while reaching for the sun was a living corpse, it was alive and dead. Without it's roots it's vibrancy would fade sooner than the daylight. It had been three days since she's seen another person she recognized, she was rootless, like the bloom, cut off from support and supplies. She had to act now, make the right decisions or risk perishing before the moon had time to wax and wane just one more cycle. Her first trip would be to the supermarket for water or food. She had no money but somehow she didn't think that would matter.
The bridesmaids rushed forward, and began struggling for the slippers, to the damage and disarray of their gowns, and when they were half way up, Elaine heaved the bouquet and it burst apart among them like a bomb of colored fragrance, and the girls below snatched at the flowers, shrieking deliriously.
The art on my wall is beautiful in its corporate way. The flowers are white and the yellow nectar looks sweet. The petals fan widely over the canvass and sometimes when I pass it I think I can almost detect a fragrance. On the top is a layer of dust, I guess I should get to that. I've moved around al lot, from coast to coast, but wherever I go the picture goes too. It has adorned bedsits, condos and now my home. It reminds me of the store I bought it in, not much more than a warehouse with music pumped in; but that isn't why I love it. There's part of me that needs nature in my home, even it is only a poor imitation of the real thing. If I could afford real blooms I'd have them every day, then the scent would be real instead of wishful thinking.
All winter long the garden was bare. The rain came and the sunshine too, but without the gentle spring heat of course nothing grew, not even the weeds. Delilah poked her head out the back door and yelped. Mom came running, "Dede, what is it?"
"It's the flowers, Mom, they have buds! I can see some pink through the green!" She turned, beaming, eyes wide. Mom took on that expression she always wore when she wanted to encourage her daughter but had been pulled away from something important. It was tax season and there were forms to fill.
The flowers lie on the table, their once beautiful petals curling at the edges from the summer heat, already their stalks are limp and when I pick them up their heads fall with gravity towards the table. I inwardly curse, I should have put them in the vase the minute I got home. Soon they stand in cool water and all I can do is go about my work and hope they recover. They're my favourites too, miniature sunflowers. I can't afford them every week either, sometimes only monthly, but I refuse to buy the silk or plastic ones. I'd rather have their transitory beauty than the imitations sold in the supermarket.
I can never see flowers too many times, I can never tire of their sweet fragrance. Each one is a delicate bloom, no matter if it is a formal garden or a waste land. Their petals are delicate works of art and their hues are medicine for my soul. I guess it's not just me that feels that way though, we bring flowers into the hospitals and graveyards, we send them to express our love, we plant them in our yards though they bear no edible fruits. Our city spends thousands replacing them along the streets and as soon as they brown more are brought in. There is something about their beauty I need for my whole being, to be fully human, I wonder if we're all a bit like that. Without the flowers it would only be concrete, and I think the drop in temperature would freeze my heart.
People told tales about how rare flowers grew like weeds in the gardens; mint green jade vines with their unique claw shaped flowers bloomed among the rich, deep red chocolate cosmos.
The flower that had been a tight bud only days ago had begun to open, already had a deeper blush of pink. The winter should still be in force but already spring had pushed it back to moderate temperatures and the kind of gentle breeze you don't notice unless you stop and be present in the moment. Ruth stretched out her fingers to touch the silky pink petals, they were cooler than she'd expected, smoother too. She tried to will it to open faster, to see the beauty she knew was inside. But nature has its way, its timing, and she wasn't ready yet. A few more days of warmth and it would bloom, she just had to wait.
The boy lay on his stomach, watching the tiny, yellow flowers lift themselves out of the permafrost and into the cold, cruel world.
"What are they?" he'd asked his grandfather at one point. He'd never seen them before, or at least never noticed. They were Takehashi's Amarelinhos. His family would be moving south when the topsoil was covered in ice and it was easier and faster to travel. They'd be moving to a city, his mother said. Civilization. Running, warm water. A port. An ocean not only accessible through ice floes.
He'd be able to sit in a boat, she said. Wouldn't that be nice?
His father spoke of green ground-coverings and bushy plants that rose up to your neck.
Takehashi's Amarelhinos faded into first-green, then brown seed-pods that crumbled in your fingers and set the little brown plant-children off into the wind.
The ground froze over. The sled was started. It was an old model, one that still ran on fossil fuels. The cities had electric sleds; and cars with wheels.
The boy rode into the dark horizon, carrying nothing but his coat and a pocket full of seeds.