leaves - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The leaves of the elder tree are as the most ancient of green eyes, open to the sunny rays - each so bold and shy, glossy and humble, as only nature can be.
The garden was lined with a beech hedgerow, deeper than my own wing span, arms stretched wide. In it nested a community of birds, taking shelter in it and doubtless finding much food there too. Yet that hedge waited until early May to become full green, to take on that verdant clothing, uncurling those leaves as if they each were a hymn sheet of heaven.
The leaves were green arrow heads, as translucent as the finest paper, their stems quills that waved in the warm summer air. How they came together, wind and foliage, neither taking, yet both giving and receiving just the same, both an intrinsic part of "the now."
The leaves are so dense over park that you cannot see even a glimpse of the frozen earth beneath. They are not the reds and oranges I read about in literature, they are just brown. The rain that fell on them yesterday has begun the process of turning them to slush, so that the only crispness that remains is their iciness; and that too will be gone in an hour when the sun is fully up. I wonder if the grass will survive being smothered so long and if in the spring all that will be left is mud. I should walk around on the tarmac path but I'm so late this morning that I need a shortcut. My boots slip a little, but not with each step, just randomly to catch me off guard. Then the water that soaks the leaves starts to creep into my socks, but I can't hurry for fear of falling over in this new uniform.
The leaves detach from their autumnal boughs and fall to earth as gently as feathers. They have the rocking motion that such delicate things assume when they tumble through the breeze. For all their gaiety they are fragile, like my Elise. She wears a smile that could light up the world but inside she crumbles easily under the weight of thoughtless words or deeds, I have only to look back at the fragments that lie broken on the sidewalk behind me to know how gentle I must be with her. But whatever extra care this girl needs is repaid many folds in her laughter and with the beautiful soul she gives so freely with. Every time I see a fall leaf it will remind me, that no matter the stresses in my life, I must protect her and wrap her in the protective blanket of my love.
The evergreen needle leaves defy autumns call, defy winter's chill. They stand bold, commanding, in their virescent towers, clothed in life. They breathe, whispering woodland secrets. Aromas of bark and loam fill the air, joined by the scent of pine needles. The once snow topped giants are now alive with birds, calling merrily, chirping, singing, safely hidden in needles of green.
The Leaves are gaily waving, dancing, entrancing, lulling me into daydreams sublime. Shades of green flutter in soft breezes, lobed leaves of oak, out-stretched hands of the maple. It is a tapestry of autumn, trees are dressed in the colours of fall, golden hues, vivid pinks, red, crispy earthen browns. The leaves lie crunchy underfoot. Falling leaves tumble, pirouette in midair and cascade to the earth below. Children throw leaves in the air, a wild chaotic fountain, a shower of colours.
In the twilight the leaves were unblinking eyes, they un-nerved him, followed him.
Alice would describe the canopy of leaves above as her breathing cathedral, letting in shafts of soft spring light like a thousand stained glass windows. It was the place she felt closest to God, there immersed in nature, not in the stuffy pews of the brick and mortar church.
Spring had come and the leaves clothed the naked trees, it was truly the most beautiful fabric, unrivalled by anything man can produce.
The leaves had no intention of carpeting the ground, but they do. I'm sure given the choice they would still be green and supple. But in their many colours they are a wonder, a truly unique mosaic. There is more richness on this damp earth than on any city street and made all the more glorious for its transient nature. Were it here in every season perhaps I would pass over it without noticing, perhaps it would be humdrum and boring. In a month they will be brown and so much part of the soil that I won't even look down, but the trees will remain, and with trees there is the knowledge that fall will return.
The leaves in my hand are more dry than my mouth. I close my fist over them and feel them shatter, I don't need to open it again to know that the once whole forms are now only fragments of what they once were. On the tree they were first buds, then the soft green of spring before maturing to a splendid dark foliage. But alone on the ground they are brittle, weak and the brown that comes before decay. If I could breath life into them I would send them back up to the boughs, back to their joyful existence in the sunshine and breeze. But no amount of coaxing from me can change what they are. I open my hand and watch them fall with the same motion as spring petals but without the beauty.
They poured leaves on the fire to make it smoke and they weren't disappointed. Dark plumes rose into the sky as the leaves blackened and turned to ash.
The leaves lay on the forest floor, natures carpet in every hue of greens, golds and browns.
The leaves danced merrily above like a living mosaic of green and gold.
The autumn comes as a gospel choir, harmonised in such a way that celebrates each hue and shows how they belong together.