spring day - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The spring day opens with the same gentle pace as the new blooms.
Today the earthy wands of the trees, those limbs that stretch into the sky, are polka-dot green with so many new buds. They have shed their winter covers, the layers they sheltered within, and now bravely seek the sun, renewed in her brilliance.
Under that "Mum's biscuit tin" sky, a hue so gentle between cloud and baby-blue, I watched each bird upon wing. It was one of those spring days with a kiss of coldness that somehow heightened the warm rays of the sun. I paused to admire the flowers, to sense their aromas, to be in the moment with their transient beauty. Beyond all, it was a day of gifts, all there simply for noticing, for letting the steady nature-given happiness in.
The spring days were spent in the garden, Grandpa and me. He planted his runner beans, courgettes and more. There were the days of bright sunshine, blue skies that sung of the summer to come; there were the days of cloud-filtered rays, the ones that made the world so cozy. There were the days it began to rain, and instead of dashing inside we stayed in the garden to dance, to taste that feast of water. That was my world, we two, happy with the earth, sunshine and rain.
The winter time has passed in its somber majesty; having brought us skies of richly marbled greys and trees so elegant in their bare beauty. Those cold days for calmness and reflection are waning and a new energy rises. On this spring day, Tara sees the flowers that are to colour her world for the warmer days to come, waving in the breeze like a smile born of the cosmos - happiness in brilliant shades. She lets her eyes flow from tree to tree, noticing the buds ready to open into the light, to be as green flags in the ever-warming wind.
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.
After the balmy days that had just passed, days that had invited summer dresses and white wine on the patio, a coolness drifted in. Amber could feel the newly damp air sinking, bringing a delicate awareness of her skin that she hadn't had for a while.
How things have changed in just a few short weeks. Take the apple tree for instance, a couple of weeks back it was a wiry tangle of last seasons growth, a mess of unruly twigs and over-long branches. Teddy went out there to prune it and at first I thought the trim was a bit severe, but the new spring growth will have a strong base now. Even from the smudged window I can see that the previously naked branches are dotted with buds. In the watery light of morning they are an ethereal silvery blue that appears fluffy. Other than the paler brown of the snipped ends they are the only colour contrast against the wood that is a deeper brown tinged with the green of some pioneering flora.
The blooms on the avenue are already out to herald springtime, but my garden is more shaded - my tree only has a time-share of sunlight competing against the shadows of the houses around it. I'm not concerned though, it will bloom and apples will grow, just a little later than the others...
It was a sunlit day of late spring, and the sky held a soft blue glow. Since the locale was in Mayagüez, Puerto Rico, you couldn’t tell it was spring because of seeing the green grass with specks of color from flowers like lavenders, roses, or asters. You couldn’t tell it was spring because the white coat of snow had melted from the sunlight. And you couldn’t tell it was spring because the trees had resurrected, and were standing tall with bright green leaves resting on the branches. There was none of that in Puerto Rico; in Puerto Rico, there was no snow, and every day was like summer. You knew it was spring because you had a calendar, and in that day, the calendar said it was the ides of May.
But it was a lovely day, the first of all the days of spring, with crocuses and wall-flowers in the cottage gardens, and white cocks crowing in the quiet hamlet.
The blossom arrives like cake frosting on the trees in delicious creams and pinks. The petals burst out from lower down the branches leaving the tips still in tight bud. After the denuded trees of winter their new and splendid clothes are a joy to see. I want a step ladder to get close enough for their new-season aroma. Though the calendar says it is winter for a few weeks yet, the trees tell me it is spring. In a few more weeks those petals, those perfect silky hearts, will flutter down as gentle rain. Just to watching them tumble will bring back memories of weddings, my own included. Fun times, beautiful times...
The flower that had been a tight bud only days ago had begun to open, already had a deeper blush of pink. The winter should still be in force but already spring had pushed it back to moderate temperatures and the kind of gentle breeze you don't notice unless you stop and be present in the moment. Ruth stretched out her fingers to touch the silky pink petals, they were cooler than she'd expected, smoother too. She tried to will it to open faster, to see the beauty she knew was inside. But nature has its way, its timing, and she wasn't ready yet. A few more days of warmth and it would bloom, she just had to wait.
All winter long the garden was bare. The rain came and the sunshine too, but without the gentle spring heat of course nothing grew, not even the weeds. Delilah poked her head out the back door and yelped. Mom came running, "Dede, what is it?"
"It's the flowers, Mom, they have buds! I can see some pink through the green!" She turned, beaming, eyes wide. Mom took on that expression she always wore when she wanted to encourage her daughter but had been pulled away from something important. It was tax season and there were forms to fill.
River is soft, wending its way between the banks that are the new vivid green only the springtime can bring. In the post dawn light the water doesn't sparkle like it does at noon, instead it is mellow like a Monet painting. Up ahead is the bridge I stand on every morning, it's basic and functional, beams of wood from bank to bank with a rail on each side. Already my eyes are scanning the ground for sticks, I'm way to old to be playing pooh sticks but that's never stopped me before. I spy a rotten branch, human snapped, likely dropped by some dog going by the teeth marks in it. I snap it over and over until I can't get the leverage for another break. I wipe the damp fragments of bark onto my windbreaker- in my mind I can see my husband roll his eyes in horror and stifle a grin.
Here we are, standing on a wide stony track, do you feel the breeze? I can see it moving your hair a little, I’m surprised. I didn’t think it would since you only visit me in spirit. Not that I’m complaining, I love your visits. I never thought you’d keep coming back but you do...just between you and me, I think you’re changing a bit. I see less sheep and a bit more lion, but there’s a way to go yet. This wind is somewhat cooling, refreshing in combination with sunshine. I didn’t think the rays would be so strong today but there’s almost a kiss of summer to it. To our right is a woodland that is almost out of place for this area of the world, there are buds on the branches denuded by winter and on the floor are still remnants of last season’s leaves, but then we were blessed with a mild winter. These deciduous types with their various shades of bark remind me of England, the branches awaiting new spring greens take me back to times long gone, but now isn’t the time for one of my mental detours. We aren’t here to see these trees, lovely though they are. Let’s turn to the right and cast our eyes over the scrubby flat land to the hill beyond...
The lazy wind pushes against the unmown grass like a child sending a dandelion seeds on their way: one o'clock, two o'clock, three. Above the white wisps trail and the late spring sun brings a welcoming warmth that coats me as good as caramel over a harvest apple. My watch says it is near noon and I lay down here at ten, yet somehow my memory of the time is no more than ten minutes, twenty at the most. With a long exhale I can detect the tell tale signs that my brain is still waking from a nap, there are the vestiges of a dream, turning in nonsensical ways, grasping to remain. Then from nowhere comes the memory of where I'm supposed to be by this time and before the dream can reassert itself my feet are taking me down the knoll to the path below.
The weather is the kind that feels like a kiss of summer without the fiery heat of noon time in August. The grass is a soft green that almost has a hint of blue and in the sky is enough pristine white cloud to show you how beautiful the sky was, how perfect. The concrete of the path was warm under Lissa’s bare feet and she was glad to be free of the confines of her running shoes. Who needed to run when walking felt so blissful. She stopped and closed her eyes so that she could focus just on sound. There is was, the blackbird song, how could anyone not say that was music? She opened her eyes and let the daylight flood back in, bringing the late April day right back into focus. Then she sat cross legged on the weed filled lawn and looked for the flowers she loved just as much as the roses her grandfather tended with such loving care. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the beauty of a rose, it was that she was equally in love with meadow flowers, with forget-me-nots and buttercups. But being a baby linguist she played with words like they were dolls and tea cups.