seasons - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The foliage of the beech hedgerow in May were pure optimism, bright and young. Come August they were a reverent green, as deep as the North American pines. How those leaves told the story of the seasons, the return of colour followed by the strong browns of its winter wands.
Seasons fade in and out like soft lullabies, their transitions slow but never faltering. Like mother earth herself they only turn in one direction, always onward, never back. As they wax and wane the pace of city life changes. In summer everyone is high energy, all systems go. With the first wash of autumn air, moving over the high-rises and suburbia like a shallow wave, the people slow down to a quieter pace. The winter is flatter still, but never falling into a negative spin, the folk of this city love the snow too much for that. Then spring comes to wake the metropolis: people, trees and blooms. Folks walk under newly unfurled leaves, smile at the fresh new flowers and tilt their faces upward to the new warmth in the sun's rays. Soon summer is back and the seasonal carousel is complete for another year.
Seasons pass like merry-go-round horses, prettily painted in their own colours. Winter is a dapple-grey with snowy streaks, her icy hooves sparkling in a sun that has lost her heat. Next comes spring, in every hue of pastels, her feet lost in the new sprung grass. Summer prances in shades so vibrant the fair-goers shade their eyes, yet smile at the brilliant echoes of July afternoons. But by far the most dazzling is sweet autumn, an ever changing mosaic of scarlets and gold. As the merry-go-round turns the crowd reflects on the season passed and the one to come, while taking a suspended moment to enjoy the one at hand.
Seasons had tumbled through Faith's life like a spinning top, forever passing too fast. Before she had put away the woollens of winter the summer was waning. She would make a date with herself to go to the park in fall, to capture the burning reds and sunny yellows that still clung to the branches; yet never make it there before they stood denuded in the wintry wind. Her youth had given way to adulthood and the road before her branched like the trees of the park, chaotic and bare. Before she had made a choice her legs had already started to walk, carrying her onward, always onward.
The seasons come and go like old friends. They bring memories of seasons past and the promise of seasons to come. They dance by us changing gradually in their back and forth way, two steps forward and one step back. And like time itself we cannot halt them, we cannot hang on to spring or keep the summer with us for longer. Each has their time, their moment, their season.
Spring breathes warm, even in the northern climes, melting the ice that keeps the seeds and tree buds asleep. The seasons are indeed changing once more with delicate petals and fragrances we lost to the on-set of winter. These seasons, like the circle of life, are a rebirth, a renewal. I love warmer seasons with the vitality they bring, yet the winter has a haunting beauty of her own. She takes both valley and mountain into a slumber, scattering her crystals in frost and snow, revealing to us even the air we take for granted.
Seasons are said to "turn" as if they were a wheel or a never ending carousel, but nothing could be less true. Time stretches out, linear, leading onward to our own personal event horizon; unless we are wrong about time itself and our primate brains are stuck in this mode of thought, like cats being asked to ponder algebra. Perhaps we are to time what flat-earthers were to the world. In that case the seasons may indeed turn, but never in neat circles. Maybe the seasons are more like the skin of a well peeled apple cascading in crazy erratic turns. To me each arrives like a new party with timeless true friends, so welcome and fun; but like all parties there is a beginning, a middle and an end. We all wish for a long journey, though perhaps it is the beauty and warmth of the steps we should value more.
As the seasons came and went the avenue changed it's colour palate. In the fall it was all about red, the winter brought brown and white, while the warmer months were simply green with splashes of summer blooms. The trees were lined up like an advance guard, Jenny liked that. She imagined they were soldiers frozen in time, their boughs at the ready, but then she loved Tolkien more than most. Rain or shine she let her fingers brush agains their gnarled trunks on the way to her morning bus, there was something about the feel, something of the earth. But no matter the time of year the traffic stayed the same, a procession of cars with drivers focusing only on their destination rather than the journey. Jenny wondered if they even noticed the leafy guardians about them, ever raised their eyes from the weary tarmac.
The snow comes, white and glistening, erasing the troubles beneath, directing me toward a new and positive day. The coldness only crispness up my resolve to find love today. Perhaps in this swirling perfect whiteness that gives perfect crystalline kisses, the coolness in the air will rejuvenate my soul, elevate my spirit and give me new reasons to step forward with confidence. It might be winter but there is beauty in it, clarity, the kind of thinking that lets me notice small details like how the trees through bare have the promise of spring within them, like the creator Himself lies dormant in the branches, ready to burst forth and greet the world with His many hues of green.
Days had stretched into months, and months had stretched into years. The pale cerise and cranberry pink blossoms of the cherry trees in Chantelle's backyard had fluttered downwards with the end of spring; the trees had revelled in their brilliant, emerald green canopy of leaves, reflecting the bright rays of the summer sun. Finally, autumn came, bathing the trees in a scarlet and caramel haze, crisp leaves as they pirouetting to earth like ballet dancers.
My aunt would say, "Come! Let us take the iron horses and leave the real ones to play in the pastures and forests." So we went biking often, through the country that was a canvass for the seasons, a theatre for the birds who played upon wing.