Summer - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
There was a dance of summer light upon the blacktop that day.
Summer sits upon the hill as a great floral wedding hat.
A newly radiant sun steps forth from the spring time, wrapping us in her warm and brilliant rays.
The echoes of our summer days remain as flowers immune to winter chills.
Come see me in the summer time, when the leaves are dark green and full, opened toward the sunlight and breathing in the hot aromatic air.
In the summertime I could close my eyes and feel that the meadow and floral blooms were as much within me as they were around me, supporting my body upon the warm earth.
Between the paving stones comes blooms so bold and tall, giving of their aroma to the summer-infused breeze. For these seeds of humble size and hue are the ninjas of the botanical world, born to shout loud of their graffiti-petaled beauty.
That hot sidewalk has me dancing along a little faster, but since my destination is assured that's all good. The sun is brilliant in cornflower-blue sky, as if one perfect petal was stretched so wide around all the world. As I go I'm dreaming up new graffiti, new vibrant mosaics to bring this neighbourhood to a higher rhythm, an exuberance we were born for. That's summer. That's the time when music, art and dance flow into one another as inseparable as any true friends should be.
In the late summer wind are the red flags of the poppy petals, a living masterpiece of nature. Though they grow unnoticed by so many, they are more to my eye than a monet or any artwork that brings their likeness in beautiful strokes of softest bristles.
Anya is watching the trees, how they sway in a warming breeze. It is that time when summer begins to blossom into something the body feels as much as the brain, when the emotions catch their thermal updrafts.
Summer comes fast, as music turned up to full volume. The sky blazes blue and the sun is a celebration of yellow, free and bright. The trees rise to the occasion, donning their best verdant hues, and everywhere are the flowers, the scattered rainbow that they are.
The flowers are a new masterpiece each day, changing the frameless scenery, gazing upward at the ever-present sky; they are the warmth of the land that give thanks to the warmth of the summer sun. They are the rainbow that arises from earth and water, yet can be nothing without those golden rays. Each day of these playful months will come in moments, the gift of the present, lived in barefoot dances, wind-tousled hair, laughter and song... the layers of winter left in some forgotten closet.
Summer comes in her own time, drifting in on a spring wind, wakening with the kind of warmth that flows to the core. Through the windows she sends light, spreading rainbows over the Victorian cream walls. Ted has become enchanted by a patch of blue and violet that slowly stretches out to show the gold and blushed orange. Then there comes a sound that has been absent for the cooler months, the steady buzz of young bees, ready to seek blooms just as pretty as they. I wonder how they'll fare when summer rests in a day or two, saving energy for her next encore, perhaps they will too.
Under the summer sun I feel the warmth of those brilliant rays, of light granting us new vibrant colours, softly brushing smiles upon faces and hearts. I see the jazz begin in the way folks walk, in the way their eyes dance upon meeting. Perhaps that's why the warmth comes from within just as much, why the playing begins from youngest to old. It's when the laughter get's dialed up and jokes run free; it's when hugs travel on the breeze as sweet as any summer bloom.
The birdsong drifts as well as any summertime pollen. It comes as magical as any flute, as improvised as deep south jazz, and as soulful as love's kiss. In that moment I am present, feet still and heart open.
All around the grey rock broke the blue skyline in craggy peaks. Even in a photograph you could tell it was summer, for this range was only naked of its snow June through early September. The rest of the year they were as white-peaked as any storybook mountains. In any other year, at any other time I would have stood here in awe, admiring the view, revelling in this land God gave us. But now all I see is despair ahead. I can't just sit here and paint them, I have to cross them before the snow comes. After that I can't come back until it's gone again, who knows where I'll stay, how I'll live or even if I'll get back in time. It could be pointless, and if it is I'll never see her again. But if I don't go she'll know I never tried, that I choose to cherish her end rather than fight for the future she deserves.
After the heat and itchiness of the hike the lake looked like a basin of balm. Its water was entirely without motion, no tide brought it up the man-made beach. Despite the relentless sunrays the green-tinged water would be cool, this basin would likely be as deep as the mountains around were tall. Like the ocean, such a large volume heats and cools slower than the land or the air. Lila walked to the edge and sat to remove her boots, but she didn't stop there. In just a few seconds she was skinny dipping and she didn't care who saw. The cool water moved over her skin like a potion, removing the irritation and replacing it with a meditative peace.
The same sun that sent new green leaves bursting from blackened buds now turns the wands of knee high grasses golden. These spindles of plants shooting through the sidewalk cracks are enough to tell the children that summer is drawing to a close, waning along with the hours of daylight. This long awaited for vacation, this echo of a bygone era when the young were needed to bring in the harvest, has only days left. Only now there is no more labour in yellow fields, the closest the kids come to it is sitting on the crumbling concrete walls pulling off the swollen seeds.
When the dandelion bloomed Frank had inwardly smiled, he was in no hurry to pluck it. Every day on his way in from work he would glance at the yellow flower, as yellow as his morning butter, before opening the door to rest on his couch. Then one evening, as the days waned and the temperature cooled, he noticed it had become a fluffy sphere and he stopped. Finally it was a dandelion clock. He picked it and took in a deep breath. With each puff from his lungs he counted forwards by an hour. By "five o'clock" the stalk was empty and the seeds were in the wind, delicately carried away in the late summer air.
Hopscotch, with stolen chalk and the sun beating down, was how we spent the last of each Indian summer. Without computers or television we drew the squares on the crumbling street and numbered them. Stones were easy to come by, along with the mud and the sticks it was pretty much all we had. We learned to be creative with our rhymes, and to be honest, they got ruder with each passing year. Our bodies grew, our minds expanded, the street crumbled some more; but always the chalk was stolen and the stones were free.