Snow - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Snow danced in the light, a choreographed ballet conducted by the gentle wind. As Ava watched her eyes grew that tiny bit wider, as open as her kid sister when she saw the street had become as a fresh new page awaiting her playful feet and mittened hands.
They say we live in the moment, that the past is always gone, and each day is something new, a stepping stone into a future we dream of even in the cold. For me, that is snow, that is those wintry days of bluster and ice. I see the earth of yesterday covered as white as any new page and the toddler in me rises as if armed with a rainbow of crayons, eager to set that right. Yet today, I'm happy to simply walk in it, create a few footprints of my own. I watch them tumble, those feathered crystals, their chaotic flight to form a blanket that could not be more uniform, more orderly. Yet for some their destination is to come to my hand, to alight upon these ungloved fingers and let my warmth be their spring melt.
Snow rests upon the park bench as if it were a feather cushion, soft and warm. It covers the rich, deep wood in perfect white. The snow is a gift-wrap only spring will open, revealing the engrained beauty that lives safely below, protected these long winter months. As the sun rises each morning, bestowing brilliance, igniting colours to vibrant hues - man dreams below of planting seeds, of the bounty of the gardens to come.
The park was covered in a thick blanket of white, statutes peeked out under their new white caps, footsteps and paw prints crisscrossed each other around the labyrinth of paths. Aside from the brown of the denuded trees, the only other color was the vivid saffron staining around the base of each lamppost, tree and shrub.
The wind howled, piling up snow in drifts, blinding the night with ice-white dust. I walked bend over against the cold, protecting my eyes with my arms. Trees, posts, cowsheds loomed into my vision, then vanished, swallowed in white.
The street looked like an unfinished painting. So much of the canvas was still perfectly white, as if waiting for the artists hand to return. The morning light struggled through the murky cloud, but even in its weakness it was enough to blind. The air was of course cold, but Maisy hadn't expected the same dampness that comes before rain. Moving from the overbearing heat of the kitchen to the verandah was like sipping on ice-water in the height of summer, until her lips went blue and she scurried back to the roasting winter vegetables and baking apple pie.
Breath pale against the numbing air, she blinked thoughtfully as the frost patiently kissed her face, captivated by the soft, dusty illusions of light that sat heavy on her eyelashes. She adored the snow, moreso when it was falling.
The snow hugged the house like a day old baby, new and clingy. It was like the street had been put to bed, hushed under nature's frigid eider-down. How odd it was to look on that view, so familiar and yet so different. There were the same houses with their peaked shingle roofs and the black street-lights that would ordinarily be off already. Whether it was the stoney cloud or the white caps over the sensors, I'm not sure, but they were still sending our their feeble yellow glow.
The walls of our lodge that were so stifling in the summertime seem so insubstantial against the chaotic onslaught of white. I have never seen the fall leaves disappear so fast. In an average year they would be most of the way to being soil before the snow dominates our lives, not this time. The black clouds are as full and dark as they are early. Already the roof is creaking and we'll have to be up there with shovels within the hour if we don't it to collapse. From the porch are icicles longer than Papa's shoes but more beautiful than mama's lead-crystal bowl. Get my gear on the watch the clearing of the drifts, but instead Papa hands me the shovel and simply nods. Apparently I'm grown up enough for this. I catch a fleeting stiffening of Mama's face but then she forces a weak smile and busies herself with making the bread, pounding the dough somewhat harder than necessary. I weigh the metal in my gloved hand and a grin spreads over my face faster than syrup on a hot pancake.
The snow alighted on Dean's face softer than the kisses his mother used to plant, and just as cold as the memories had turned. In this swirl of white the world was washed anew, like a new page, but he didn't want it. Under this pristine layer of crystalline water was the path he trod as a child, walking with her hand in hand. He wanted to turn the pages back and dwell on the fine details: the crows feet around her eyes that deepened when she smiled, how she always wore Dad's rubber boots with four layers of socks rather than buy her own, how she never got too old to splash in the puddles. But life was pulling him forward into the unknown with one hand and erasing his past with the other. His thoughts were thicker than the blizzard, "She's gone and who cares? The colours of spring will come but she won't." He turned around to see his prints, he wasn't there anymore but they were. He figured when he got home he'd look for hers, her letters, her favourite novels, her recipe book.
No sooner had the car's icy tracks been imprinted on the road, they were erased by an onslaught of fresh white snow. They inched up the steep, wide avenue, wheels spinning momentarily before they regained traction, their wipers moving frantically over the windscreen.
Tommy pressed his face to the window pane, the snowflakes were as large as the peas he squashed each mealtime rather than eat them. Only instead of a being that boring green they were whiter than the new socks Grandma had given him for Christmas, and certainly a good deal whiter than they were now. After only a minute he could no longer see, his own breath, having misted up the glass. Without calling out his intentions to his Dad he raced out to the porch and stuck his tongue as far out as it would go. The flakes melted on contact with the raised pink buds. He'd been hoping for a burst of flavour like from those slushies at the movie theatre, but instead there was less flavour than the tap water. Like something had been taken out. Already his skin was as lumpy as the mountain range before him and he felt his muscles begin to quiver without him meaning to. He crouched down to poke the drifts at his feet and his finger hole remained. This was too good; softer than ice, thicker than soup.
The branches hang low with the weight of the snow, they are like my mother's arms when she returns from the green grocers, laden with winter squash and carrots. The green is still there under the brilliant white, contrasting perfectly in that "winter wonderland" sort of way. I'll need the snow shoes today, while the layer looks as solid as any forest floor I would sink right up to my knees or beyond. The sky is clear now, a perfect uninterrupted blue. It's odd to think that the grass is still down there, surviving as best it can until the spring melt, entombed in the compacted and icy layers lower down. After yesterday's storm the top layer is perfect powder, our coldest season doesn't get any better than this.
Intricate patterns of ice floated weightlessly downward from the pure white sky above, each flake swirling and dancing, as an icy wind carried it toward a group of intrepid travellers.
John was used to this kind of weather, so led his group of ramblers through the whitened landscape. He enjoyed everything about this kind of weather, the satisfaction of being the first to make an impression in a blanket of freshly lain snow, the subtle crunch underfoot as he strode forward and the best bit of all...the sight of low hanging shafts of sunlight illuminating the sparkling whitened scene before him.
The wind whispered as the snow fell like confetti on my wooly cap. I gazed at the untouched snow in front of me. The swirling white and the lush grass collided. The shrubs and trees were stained with white. The ground was as smooth as a cake and the snow fell like icing powder, perfecting it to its finest point.
It feels like shaved ice, only thinner. Huge blankets of icing, caking every surface it touches in magnificent cases of frozen water. It seems shapeless, only when you catch one perfect snowflake, you see that it does actually have a shape.
snow harsh and biting, driven into faces, blinded by the frantic flurry of swirling white, brutal unforgiving wind cutting right through gloves and pants, frigid beauty, tempestuous onslaught, might of nature, wild, untamed.
Gentle and lush, cold to the touch, powdery heavenly beauty
Of a sudden the clouds broke into a deluge of whirling snow.
Driving blizzard, bitter wind, biting, stinging, blinding sea of white, beating against jacket and jeans, snow boots sink into drifts up to my knees, head bent to meet the onslaught, face raw, eyes squinting, all the while thinking of home, fireplace, hot cocoa.
New fallen snow, milk bottle top sized snowflakes drift lazily to earth on gentle breeze, crisp winter air, snow topped street lamps, paw prints heading for home, quickly covered by a pristine blanket of white.
I opened the window and inhaled the crisp, cool air. Snow! The thought of snow melted into my head. Then the first flakes began to fall. Sticking out my tongue like a little child, I ran outside. Not caring that it was frigid, I ran and twirled. The white rain from the heavens fell faster and faster, almost mimicking my eccentric twirling. And then it stopped. The flakes settled, and I lay down to sleep in the soft bed of frosty down.
Silvery flakes drifted down, glittering in the bright light of the harvest moon. The blackbird swooped down to it's nest. The sun was rising and the thick blanket of snow was now visible. The walnut brown trees swayed in the cold winter wind. Icicles on the trees dropped with a smash. Like glass cracking and shattering. The weather was frosty and the snow was glittering. Like white sequins laying all over the floor. A chilled squirrel hopped from tree to tree, carefully trotting on branches. The ghostly wind broke the peaceful sound of silence. The snow was damp, every step felt like walking in mud. It was dawn. The horizon was candy red. The sun shone a dandelion yellow along with strokes of carrot orange. The snow now reflected the sky. Large flakes fells as if angels in heaven were having a pillow fight. Though the snow was beautiful it was cold and sharp. Crisp, white, pristine, shining covering that transformed the landscape making it a magical land full of wonder and undiscovered mysteries.
As I glance up at the sky, snowflakes fall on my face - colorless confetti in a wintry ballroom. Yet I wasn’t just dancing with the snowflakes; I was flying.
A place that when you stare up into the pure white sky above, intricate patterns of ice float weightlessly, each flake swirling and dancing, as an icy wind carries it to you. A place that has old castles standing on rugged slopes, moonlit snowdrifts piled up against the tan walls, the frosty windows and the golden tips of the castle glittering with snow, just like white sequins sprinkled all over them. A place that the breathtaking sights of visiting castles is just like being transported to a different time period. Where is this fairy-like place that has crisp, white and pristine coverings transforming the landscape into a magical land full of wonder and undiscovered mysteries?
Glittering snowflakes fell soundlessly, taking their time before they reached their destined places of rest, enveloping everything in a calm, silent coldness that was comforting in its own special way.