petals - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Rose petals tumble from a placid sky, brilliant reds waking a wintry morn. The bride and groom run through nature's confetti in their jeans and toques, a frigid breeze carrying the delicate perfume into the city air. With a warm smile radiating to her well-wishers, the bride raises a hand to ward off the flurry, a fresh gold band glinting in the sunlight. The newly minted Mr. and Mrs. jump into an old chevy, its once cherry paint sun-bleached to a well worn shade, tin cans tied to the bumper.
Long after the wedding car has gone, the petals remain - splashes of summer blooms on the grey sidewalk. A passing child stops to scoop some up, filling her pockets. An elderly couple points and chatters with nostalgic glee. But most folks hurry on unaware of the rose petal carpet they walk on, unaware of the grand importance of that day.
The summer bloom has cried so many petals onto the still warm earth; the last vestiges of her beauty waiting for a precocious gust to carry them spinning to their rest. Each petal, papery and thin, lies on the newly golden grass, its veins glowing pink in the setting sun...
Petals lie over the tiles like fall leaves on a supermarket floor. They should be romantic but the lighting is all wrong; in the white glare they simply look out of place. Despite the breeze of the newly opened door they stay limply in place, already dehydrated. If I don't scrape them up right away they'll stick...
The ground is so thick with petals that it reminds Sasha of the beautiful rainbow fish her father once owned. The colours overlap with a heady vibrancy that brings her hands swooping down on instinct. She lets her fingers touch the perfumed "scales," holding them up briefly to take in their aroma before letting them tumble from her hand back to the garden path. Every shade of rose petal is there, so large and scalloped that they have collected morning dew. Intermingled are the shocking oranges, purples and fuchsias of the asters, their petals long and thin. Later she will return with a pallet and easel and sit for hours until she has captured their transient splendour as best she can.
Petals tightly wrap the season's new rose buds, ready to release the gift of their bloom unto the world. No two are the same; each varies their subtle hue like a watercolour, as if painted by an artists hand. Each petal grows, matures, taking in rainfall from the damp earth, unaware of her own beauty or the simple joy she brings.
The rose petals show their first signs of fading. At the edges of each they darken and curl under, but not enough to tarnish the beauty of the flower that glows resplendent in the strong summer sun. I know I should leave it be but instead I reach forward to pluck a petal; two extras fall to the warm ground. Delicately I tear it several times before holding it to my nose. The fragrance is sweet; even if I had not seen the bloom it couldn't be anything but a rose. Then like I did so many years ago, I rub them to my wrist - natures perfume at its finest.
Amber brushes against the petals of a large aster, only to pause. The feeling is soft, yet different from the other flowers in the florist's shop. Taking a step backwards, she reaches out and touches the bloom, the colour reminding her of cantaloupe melon. A smile grows on her face, the silk petals blended in so well that she had mistaken it for a real flower. She wraps her fingers around the green stem and tugs until she holds it up to the daylight. "A flower that never dies," she thought to herself, "very tempting." But there was a part of her that didn't approve. Should she take this everlasting bloom, what of her weekly walk to the florist? What of returning home with budded roses, asters or lilies wrapped in damp tissue?
Summer wanes and with it the vibrancy of the hottest months departs. The gaiety of the blooms passes, the flowers using the last of their strength to fatten seeds before they desiccate. The intoxicating aroma of the rose gardens gives way to the cool scent of wet grass. The petals are to the grey garden path what the leaves are in fall, fleeting in their whimsical beauty.
The flowers we hold so dear are the first to bow to the changing of the seasons, petals tumbling to the sun-scorched grass. They are the confetti upon which lady summer will depart, her graceful dance enticing the leaves to replace the floral scarlets and golds with their own decadent crowns.
When the blooms cry for the season past we walk on paths of petals. The brilliant hues and the pastel shades alike tumble to leave naked stem and stalk in the cooling breeze.
Upon the petals sit a hundred beads of water, each one a perfect sphere, brilliant in the morning rays. Each drop sits so lightly, yet together they are enough to cause the bloom to bow toward the earth. So delicate is the flower that even these scatterings of dew are significant. Soon the gentle heat of the morning will send them back to the clouds and the bloom will raise her head, calling to the summer bees.