flowers - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Flowers billowed gaily, sailing and anchored, so very buoyant in a nectar onshore wind.
The grass was the green canvas of the floral flash-mob: a pop art rainbow told in positive chaos.
The flowers sang of spring's deep soul, of a sense of earth opening her heart to light and warmed air.
From the rain-washed earth, from the rich black mud, came the gaily dancing flowers of summertime.
The flowers were a dancing rainbow, as if light and music had found a new way to blossom together.
The flowers came as dreams of the earth that were born into reality come the spring light.
Only a flower with true roots, nurtured by a loving mother earth may bloom, for only then can they drink from the rain. To admire the bloom and ignore the need for roots is to accept the death of all flowers, to walk into a world where flowers are only paper-thin works of paint and easel.
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 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.
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.
As the flowers to your own beauty you are blind, yet it is only in the presence of such sun-given nectar that all ecosystems thrive.