spring - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
There is a playfulness in nature, in the skies, woodland and soil. The time of plenty is coming and the joy of coming abundance energizes the air. In rain or shine, there is a new warmth, inviting the lips to smile. The greenness of the grass is soon to be echoed by the trees, while the flowers promise their rainbow garland to our Earth.
The early morning sunlight, soft and diffuse, gives way to the first strong rays of the day, the ones that bring true warmth. In this light, water evaporates in slow waves, waves that eddy in the gentle breeze, flowing upward to white-puffed clouds, ships of white in the blue above. The opera from the trees becomes all the more powerful, as if these golden rays are their conductor's wand, and together they are the song that calls forth the spring.
A female blackbird hops on the newly defrosted grass, her deep brown legs matching the soil below. She has feathers the colour of every tree, of every wisp of wood that promises life to come. There is something in the way she moves, a joy, as she relishes the season change. The air is cool, but she can feel the promise of warmth within.
After so long without it I am surprised by the warmth in the sun's rays. No longer does it leach my heat but instead it gives to me. Once more my breaths are quite invisible and the birds are more active in the sky. Still cloud lingers but today it is not a dense layer of grey but instead a chaotic array of white puffy shapes amid the blue. I stretch out my hands and tilt my face upward. This sun is not enough to burn - even for me - and whilst it has the first lick of summer about it I put that out of my mind. Savouring the moment is important, tomorrow isn't guaranteed to anyone, not even me.
The spring washed in like the tide, advancing confidently with warmth and white sunshine one day and retreating the next. On some days the new vibrant hues of the pansies and daffodils were bathed in tepid air that encouraged them gently, on others the wintry wind gusted fiercely - demanding a return to the bitterness of the months before. But like the tide, the spring would not be stopped, it pushed on right into May, banishing the chill to memory. By then the birds were busy with feeding the never ending appetites of chicks and the cats prowled the hospital grounds in the hopes that one might fall. Sometimes the rain would fall gently, and other-times lash at the windows of the ward, but its iciness was quite gone. It was on one of these warm but wet mornings that Mac finally got his discharge - reaching forward with his left leg and clacking down the cane in his right hand. Recovery had been slow, but his memory was quite restored.
The previously denuded branches offered their wands of tight green bud to the brilliant rays of spring. The wind had lost its bite, it had become ambient, congenial, blowing branches and tousling the hair of pedestrians - but no longer stealing their warmth. From the gardens waved the precocious yellow bloom of the daffodils, and should Simon be drawn into the woodland today there were bluebells too. He tilted his head toward the sky to feel the new heat in the sunlight's kiss. How he had missed it in these long grey London months. The only clouds were fluffy, white and quite dispersed, there would be no rain today.
Then spring came. The white blanket melted away, the evergreens and spruces scented the air with their new growth; the little streams rushed hither and thither as if they were joyfully carolling, birds sang and built everywhere. Children were out for wild flowers, and raced around like deers.
At last the spring had arrived, breathing warm winds over the desolate landscape. The dishevelled grasses soon became lush, erasing even the memory of their wintry selves. The trees budded with leaf and blossom, and the harsh sleet became soft rain. The children looked entirely different, their heads no longer entombed in woollen toques - instead their hair flowed black, blonde, brown and red in the streaming light. The remnants of snow had entirely vanished and the rivers swelled with the melt water. The only brilliant white remaining was that on the snowy peaks of the mountains that ringed the otherwise flat land.
It is a breezy March afternoon. I stare out at the scene before me as I note just how much the Season of Birth has made it's presence known. The lake is lined with a seemingly never-ending line of cherry blossom trees. The salmon pick petals are found in irregular clusters on the wayward branded of the trees. Daffodils are scattered across the landscape, their golden heads hanging low, staring at the ground below. The manicured lawn does it's job excellently in concealing the less eye-pleasing mud. Thin streamy clouds of a creamy beige are reflected in the pale water of the lake. To complete this picturesque scene, a sky of an azure blue hangs overhead. And it is this thought that immediately sobers me and my wandering mind. His eyes were the colour of the sky.
Blind from birth, the spring was all about the sounds, the tastes and the rising air temperature for Mila. With keen awareness of the frigidity of winter rain, she knew before her keen sighted friends when the winter season was in transition. She felt the breeze kiss her more warmly and let her hands explore the overhanging branches of neighbourhood trees to find the swelling buds- buds that would soon crack open to release the soft papery leaves within.The myriad of verdant hues from the grass to the leaves above were lost to her; but their gentle fragrance never was. She would take a new lush blade or leaf and rub it between her fingers, releasing its perfume. She knew the flowers of her neighbourhood by their scents, either that which they released to the damp air or by crushing a petal to release the aromatic sap. She knew the call of each bird species and marked the progress of the season with their song.
Just as the gardens throw off their subdued colours in favour of vibrant petals and the soft greens of early spring, so do the Londoners around me. They shed their grey overcoats and black hats, donning shades to rival the new spring blooms- even if they are just flashes of lilac or yellow in an otherwise sombre outfit. Spirits rise, there is more good humour in the air and the children reappear in greater numbers to the streets. There are soccer games in the spaces between the clustered garages and in cul-de-sacs. Skateboarders ride over the uneven pavement slabs, sounding for all the world like an approaching train. Even the rainfall is warmer, no longer driving and harsh, but alighting softly on the face, almost refreshing. It is the promise of summer to come, of warm days without the weight of winter garb.
When asked to describe spring Lexi would think of the tight black buds of the Ash that cracked open to reveal the softest pea-green. Her mind would fill with the bloom of the suburban gardens and the bluebells along the woodland path that was her shortcut to school. She would describe the gentle heat in the brilliant rays of sunshine and the blossom that rained down, confetti-like in the breeze. She would think of the heavy rainfalls and the smell of the woodland path as the water evaporated into the warming air. With her eyes she drank in the newly invigorated verdant hues and the world painted anew with the blooms every colour from pastels to hot pinks and reds.
To Dillon, the butterflies embodied all that was best about the spring. Their tiny bodies, to fragile to survive in anything but the delicious warmth of the spring air. Their wings, no more substantial than the paper models he made in his bedroom, beat the air. He longed to see the minuscule vortices they left in their wake as they flew from flower to flower.
New buds appeared on the apple tree, the promise of spring blossom and new leaves to come. From the once barren soil burst the spring flowers, the crocuses the daffodils and the tulips. The air now positively vibrated with bird song as the nesting parents called to one another in the warm air and gentle breeze. The sunlight now flooded the front porch with it's golden glow, giving it's heat to the terracotta tile that had been like ice only weeks before.
The new spring grass shot up as time itself had sped up. It drank in the rain that fell without pause and stretched toward the watery sunlight that illuminated each droplet. In no time it would be a meadow, but without a break in the rain what could he do? The mower would never cut through that. Short of hiring a sheep he'd just have to let it grow.
Spring is triumphing; vibrant flowers dancing in once somber fields. A soft, fragrant breeze lingers in the misty air, which has departed from its winter crispness. Blessed dew relieves the greenery from its icy frost and the blooming buds gaze intently at the crystal blue sky. Grass sprouts from the concealed earth, bringing new radiance.
Warmth spreads up the denuded trees, blossoms exploding, showering the frozen grounds with bursts of blinding colours. The plants unfurl their hidden brilliance and the somnolent creatures inhabit spring’s territory once more. The sun rises gradually into the wispy clouds, strands of sunlight occupying the awakening land - brightening up the arrival of beauty, joy and love: Spring…….
The spring was now well advanced and had sprinkled the meadows with flowers.
Under the gentle spring sun its rays warm my skin - like kisses from the divine. The nascent leaves have that soft green and the ground is scattered with vivid blooms whose petals dance in the breeze. I love spring. I could drink it up like a tonic. Instead I spread my fingers wide and fan them though the damp air - like I did when I was a kid trying to fly, only now it's just something that makes me smirk. Birds above flit from branch to branch, letting out their sweet melody. If this day was a beautiful restaurant dish it would be a fresh salad with feta cheese and olives. If it was a drink it would be a chilled glass of white wine. But I prefer to think of it as music, and so with each step I hear the Beetles "All you need is love, love, love is all you need..."
It was a splendid day, the eve of spring brought wild flowers to grow over all the lower Himalayan hills. The winter cold was now banished and the finally the sun’s warm rats reached the soil rather than being halted by clouds. The summer breeze was quite refreshing with the touch of the pleasant smell of the trees and flowers. The place was so peaceful, the sun was shining bright and the cool mountainous winds caused all the small plants to dance along, it seemed that the mountains sang a song and the trees danced to its melody. The scent of the flowers was very soothing and stimulating. The hills were very attractive; the pleasant place was an attraction for those who desired peace.
Upon the hill I stand as still as the trees, not totally frozen, for just as their budded twigs move so does my long hair. My eyes are closed. Tousled auburn ribbons whip about my face; blown by air as fresh as any after a rainstorm. After several deep breaths I take in the view, from here the fields are laid out like one of Nanna's quilts. But instead of her magentas and cyans it is the earthen colours of early spring. There are ploughed fields of brown and the pastures that are still dull rather than having the bright hue of new growth. It's too early for this hill to have flowers, but I know if I kneel on the wet blades there will already be the tightly folded petals in their green casings, swelling, ready to bloom. These long walks in nature are my treasure, by sanctuary from the busy hubbub of my life.
The lambing was Amanda's favourite part of spring. She had watched her entire flock come into the world. She savoured every moment of the new lambs rising on shaky legs, she drank it in as if it were the very elixir of life. Over the coming days she would watch them jump for the first time, run and frisk about as if the world was their playground and they had come to claim it.
Goodbye to snow, goodbye to slush and frozen icy puddles too. No more icicles on my front porch, take those winter tires off. Hello to spring; frog spawn, tad poles, pond skaters, blossom pink and white, buds, new leaves, daffodils, crocuses, warming up, rainy days, fine days, forest hikes, beware of mother bears and cubs. Preparing the vegetable patch, turning soil, weeding, planting seeds, first seedlings breaking through, cotyledons reaching, stretching for a semi-elusive sun. Birds sing, finding mates, gathering nest material, searching for worms, my spirit lifts, life is breathed into the world a new.
The girl stepped outside, still in her lacy silk nightgown, her long, dark hair tumbling against her bare shoulders, her smooth skin illuminated by the glowing moon. She sighed, inhaling the cool spring air, the fresh scent of flowers passing through her pale lips and into her lungs. It was dizzying in its intensity, nature's sweet perfume.
The dewy grass was cool against her feet, dark green and glossy, gently fluttering in the midnight breeze. Oh, the breeze. How it swept her away, how it almost carried her. She closed her eyes and felt it brush against her like the fingertips of a forgotten lover. She was transported for a moment to another realm where she was no longer alone, and saw in her mind's eye the figure of a broken man in the wind.
A bird sang in the distance. His voice was so carefree, so naive and innocent, an unbroken melody. The sound was very pure, untarnished, and it carried itself steadily through the night on delicate wings. The girl felt the night dance around her, to this beautiful tune. She watched as a nearby tree, with an imperfect lilt, swayed and shook, and as the stars chanted and twinkled in harmony.
The girl didn't want to go inside. She didn't want time to pass. She wanted to stay here forever, have this moment last forever, an endless spring.
Eventually she went back inside and shook under the covers of her bed, and cried herself to sleep.
On the plains there were years in which old man winter refused to give up without a fight. Spring would ride in on a gentle breeze, unhindered by any hill. This April air would soothe the embattled flora with its sweet promise of the warmth to come, only to be pushed back by bitter gales and hail. But the spring was patient, always returning in the calm between each storm and each time expanding until it had ebbed out the frigid blasts entirely. Then for some months it rained down both water and soft heat. Some days could still be a blanket of cloud, like the season passed, but mostly they were sporadic and sparse - allowing the brilliant light to strike the fields unhindered. Soon the fields were not brown at all, but swathes of waving green. Always we were in an ocean of white, brown, green or gold, but it was the green I liked best - green stretching way up the mountains in the far north and to the blue of the sky in the south.
These are the days where there is light under the dark. These are the days where the green grass grows fast through the cracks and there is laughter beneath cloudy skies. The sidewalk may be cold, yet every foot is dry. Even when the night calls street-lamps stand tall, arching over the silvery road, illuminating the way. These are the days when flowers are the jewels of the new season. These are the days we grow strong.