Grass - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The grass was the green canvas of the floral flash-mob: a pop art rainbow told in positive chaos.
The grass, in tall sliken ribbons, sheltered earth and beetle same; it protected the rain-given moisture until the high sun found her evening slumber, and each dawn had grown a stealthy bit more.
The greens of the grass rose to so many high notes of colour as any good classical piece will do.
The grass moved as a heaven-weaved quilt of the earth, as if by root and stem it stood in protection of what mattered.
We sat there in late summer, the grass moving in steady waves, those long heads of golden seed as calming as harbour waves. There was something about it, their movement synchronized yet independent, their hues so close yet unique. And while they danced in that way, came the song of crickets and the chirps of birds content to be warmed by gentle rays. I recall thinking of the days we had been so blessed to have and feeling the inner joy of anticipating the autumn colours. I love the reds and golds as much as anyone, yet the rich browns have a homely feel, something of the earth. I let my mind wonder when those changes will come, perhaps as early as next month or the one after. Then every day those changes bring an inner smile in rain and shine. After a while I glanced toward Monica, "Hey, how about a tall drink of something refreshing?"
The grass on my soles is soft on soft, warm on warm, a gentle tickle as each giving wand forms a cushion of green. Each strand moves in the summer breeze as easily as my hair, the waves and rustling as alive as my steady breaths.
The grass is a runner at the blocks, ready to race for the light as soon as the weather warms. Fresh sunlight illuminates perfect spheres of water upon its fine green wands. With the chorus of the birds above, this chill day already feels as if it has a touch of magic, as if anything may happen.
The grass is taller than I've ever seen it; meadow-like but still green. All that's missing is the weeds that were so beautiful in the somerset fields. I want the blue cornflowers, scarlet poppies, white asters and even the thistles. Next spring I'm going to scatter seeds in the newly softened soil. This time next year the grass will be just as high, but a riot of colour in place of the uniform green – something to warm my soul as well as please the eye.
The grass waves like people in a stadium, catching the light in a way that shows it isn't one green but many. The blades can be skinny or broad, but in this field they are packed so tightly I can't see the earth beneath. In this spring that is so rich in rain, and on the good black soil of the district, each one has grown so tall I have to walk as if I'm on the moon. The recent rain lies in beads that transfer to my boots and soak into the socks I have pulled up high over my pants. It's a long walk over to the other side, but so pleasant in the early morning. The birds sing like they've never seen a dawn so fresh and I have to agree. I could see this a hundred times over and never tire of it. These fields are the fields of home. Perhaps I had to go far away to appreciate it, but never again. I see its everyday beauty for the wonder it is and know this is where am most at peace.
The grass flattened under the wind in beautiful shimmering waves, each blade turned momentarily to reflect brilliant sunlight. Each one was no more than a slim wand of green, yet together they danced in way that bought out my pain and let a little goodness in.
The grass is a sea with white-dew-foam upon crests that rise so freely toward the sunlight. She is every green from gold-infused to deepest summer foliage. Perhaps in a few weeks, when the sun is warmer once more and the tops are neatly trimmed, she will be as a quiet as harbour waters, flat and calm, but for now she is joyous waves, natural and wild.