Summer - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
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.
Gone are the days of wintry light kissing coldly upon my face, in those blustery days the great golden orb above was friendly. When uncovered by snow or sleet laden cloud it gave colour to the day, finding any glint of greenness left in the world. When spring came its brilliant rays shone not just brightly, but with a touch of warmth, a promise of the growing seasons to come. Now in the heady heat of August, we walk on the tinder of the forest floor, dreading the moment we must leave its dense protective canopy and walk the last mile beneath the unrelenting sun. The world is painted vivid by its rays, like a new painting with still wet oils. No longer is it gently warming our bodies, bringing life back to cold muscles; now it burns unprotected skin in minutes. After the light clothing of June and July the full body smocks and hats are unwelcome, but preferable to redness and pain. In this long month the sun does not bring smiles, instead we march on, head-bowed under it's angry glare.
The perfume of the roses took him back in time to a transitory evocation of summers past.
The sun that was orange only an hour ago, shining warmly upon the night-chilled soil has become a yellow inferno. There is no more softness to the world, no more hint of the darkness as it ebbs away. Now there is only the day and the heart that rains down is building as surely as that in my stove once the kindling is added. The sun is the fire and until nightfall my home will be the coolest place to be, set deep in the earth, taking the refrigeration of the soil. Out here everything will cook. So for these heady summer months I will be out in dawn and dusk, the only times with enough rays to see and not enough to burn.
Summer crept across the housing estate igniting the weeds and grasses that grew in the cracked pavement.
The water moves softly around my outstretched fingers, caressing cooly, eddying in its wake. I pull my hand out and watch the drips, transparent and not at the same time. They fall as if snatched by gravity to the saline below, each one swiftly haloed by ever-growing rings, distorting the pebbled sea-bed. In the breeze my hand is cold, yet my back is warmed by the early summer sun. Here I could stay all day were it not for the rumbling of my stomach and the aroma of fried fish from near the dock...
The butterfly beats its wings up and down so sharply it looks like it's under remote control, as if a tiny electrical current opens and shuts those vivid yellow blades. With legs that somehow stick, it holds the stem of the flower that is already passed its peak, petals blackened at the edges and curling. Perhaps it already knows the summer is fast becoming fall, that soon the leaves will tumble and the nights close in, chilly and short. I hope not. I hope it lives everyday with never a thought for the future or past. There is as much beauty in that as in its sunny hue.
Heat pushed in on her, she felt as claustrophobic as cat in a box. The umbrella cast a pathetic patch of shade and did nothing for the almost overwhelming humidity, it was like breathing in bath water. Despite being as motionless as a rag doll in the creaking wooden deck chair, sweat rolled down her forehead washing mascara into her eyes.
Countryside bathed in brilliant summer sunlight, white and pink clover on the hills, cows graze contentedly, calves at their sides growing bigger by the day, grass grows taller in the meadows, swaying, rustling as crickets chirp. Children hide in the tall grass plying hide 'n' seek. Picnics by the river, open sun-lit grass, hot and cloudless, lazy hazy days, quiche, sandwiches, apples, strawberries and sparkling water. Swans swimming on the canal, four grey signets in tow looking for bread. Boats rise and fall in the lock, wispy clouds scudding across an azure sky.
The summer sun beat upon my back relentlessly, forcing beads of seat down my forehead. I was just strolling in the park; yet I was so tired. The ball of fire in the sky blazed a brilliant amber, so bright that I could not admire it for long. Quickening my pace, I realized that I should have gone swimming instead of taking a walk. I sigh and wipe sweat from my forehead. After all, swimming in hot weather and cooling down always brought much joy.
The beach is more people than sand. They lie and sit on towels and chairs. It is a crazy array of colour, every shade the mall has to offer, all right there with no thought to coordination. It's like they got vomited there. I'd rather pull my own nails off than sit so close to other folks, so close you can smell their suntan lotion and hear their banal conversation. Maybe that makes me a snob, or a freak, or whatever, but I don't care.
On that sultry day in mid-August the lake was as flat as any mirror. It lay without a ripple in the silver-blue water as if time itself had been frozen. From the tall pines around the edge came not a sound, no movement of branches, no birds calling. Tim had expected that some other campers would be close, but it they were they were sleeping off the heat in a tent or some other shaded place. He snorted to himself, apparently he was the only creature to be dumb enough to be out in this heat-wave. His eyes dropped to the water, clean enough to drink. He bent down with cupped hands and drank, drips falling from his lips, sending ripples in ever widening circles until they disappeared. The taste surprised him, it was missing something. Was it chlorine, fluoride maybe? Whatever it was, he liked it; before his lips had dried his hand was returning with more and he was sorely tempted to wade in clothes and all.
Emma sat on the edge of he father's yacht, her back to the hot noon sunrays and feet dangling into the warmed summer waters. She kicked lazily at the swelling waves until they fell below her toes again while toying with the idea of swimming. It would be something to do, a break from the sweltering heat. Her head felt hot, the heat sinking into her black hair as efficiently as tarmac. She slid to her side and dangled her arm down to catch the briny water with her finger tips. The side of the boat was uncomfortably warm and so she sat. This far out the waves had no white crest, no foam spray, instead they rolled in lazy arcs like the back of a giant cobra. She got abruptly to her feet and without calling out a warning to her Dad, she dived right in. The sultry air was immediately replaced with the cool water of the ocean. Soon her lungs clamoured for air and she kicked for the top, quite unaware that the boat had moved...
As days passed slyly, creeping past my knowledge and soon flowers were sprouting on trees, lighting the scenery with pastelly old lady shades mixing with the vibrant emerald shades of the grass.
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.
The water shone like a molten mirror. It had lost its turquoise to the night but in the moonlight the ripples twisted; as if the sea below them was shivering to loose the summer rays. Yet to my feet the warmth was still there, cocooned in the sub-aqua currents. It was all the invitation I needed to dive in, swim deeply into the welcoming blackness and leave my troubles bobbing on the boat above.
The heat was so devastating I thought I was going to shrivel up on the spot, dehydrated. I didn’t usually feel this drained, this parched. The sun seemed to bite into me, to eat into my skin and eyes despite a straw hat and dark glasses.
He took a deep breath and opened the doors. He had to cover his eyes for the sun light was to bright. Once he got adjusted he let out a soft gasp and his bag fell on the ground. He smelled the fresh air around him and let out a genuine smile in years. He looked at the green trees standing proudly and free and healthy. He could spot some juicy red apples hanging above. He looked around in amazement. The flowers were radiant and beautiful swaying with the wind. Oh the wind, that nice breeze against his face with the wonderful perfume of roses met his nose. He heard the faint sound of chirping above and saw birds soar across the sky. The warm gentle sun shone on him, filling his body with warmth but he took no notion of it for the beauty was to great. "This is summer"
Imagine you are in a beautiful park. Now let's go sense by sense. You can smell the hot dogs and barbecues. You can hear children running around screaming with joy, dogs barking. You can feel the grass as you grasp it in your hand. You can feel the breeze against your face. You can feel the picnic blanket your setting on. You can feel the coolness of the shade. You can see the beautiful landscape as you relax. You can taste the ketchup on your hotdog, or the tangy flavor of an orange. What is this? It's summer of course!
Man do I miss summer...
As the allotted time draws near the steady summer heat becomes far less bearable. I want the air conditioning of the mall, not the filthy downtown sidewalk. I can't sit on the burning tarmac so the best I can do is prop myself up against the lamppost, letting my eyes move over the scars in the paintwork. I run my hand over the rough paint and feel my insides squirm in a way they haven't done since the last job interview I went to. I wonder what this Joel will be like, all he said was he was going my way and he was asking for fifty percent gas money. I don't know his age, what he drives or whether he likes the kind of music that makes my ears bleed. I can feel my bangs stick to the perspiration on my face, I must be as beaded as the dawn grass. My hand begins to shake in a way I can't control, all I can do is loop my thumbs into my jean shorts pocket and hope to look casual.
In this heat I an barely formulate a thought. There is no cooling breeze or cloud to block the high August sun. I curl my fingers around the thin fabric of my top, waving it in and out to create just a little air flow, but it's not enough, like an ice cube into hot soup. He's late, whoever this Joel is, I'm just praying he's not a creep. Perhaps he's some irritating "man on a mission" ready to fill my head with information I never wanted to know. But whoever he is we'll be locked in a tin box together all the way to Phoenix, and that road is longer than one of Grandpa's war tales. Just when I think I'll have to go inside an old Chevy pulls up, like that Mater out of the Cars movie. It's blocking my view of the street and suddenly I can't sit, what if he drives right past? I'll never get there, never see Mike again. I jump up like I'm sitting on a wasp and throw an angry glance at the man getting out of the heap. "Lucy?" I stop and force my face into something more pleasant.
The tree stands mute in the summer air. The humidity encases us both and like the boughs above me I don't move. I am sprawled on last seasons leaf litter, now soft and most of the way to becoming loam. No longer are the leaves above the delicate shade of new asparagus, they are as deep as winter kale, deeper still where they overlap. Each one is so tiny, and from down here even more so; yet together they almost obscure the sunrays that bring this unbearable heat. Even the birds are silenced, I imagine they are high in the rough limbs, statue like, breathing with open beaks. There is a fragrance here, a distinctive aroma of leaf and soil. Underneath me the ground is lumpy with roots that project though the soil and my loose cotton clothes. They twist like snakes turned to stone, writhing upward one final time before descending deep into the earth to take cool draughts from the water table below. It's all I can do to lie here sweating and breathing, dehydrating until nightfall.
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.
She is fearless because the night is as temporary as her frayed denim shorts.
She paints sunsets the same pink color as her lips, softer than the grass blades she ties between her teeth and whistles with. Her hair is golden like the sun and bleached at the ends like it’s rays, it turns the Earth’s hues brighter than her sunburnt cheeks. She speaks with the tide’s tantalizing tongues, her whispers like the sea breeze, her voice like the crickets in the evening and the blue birds in the morning.
They glide across the sky like her fingers pointing to dragonfly-shaped clouds and bursting silver stars. Her eyes match the leaves of birch trees planted in night-chilled soil that she sits under to seek a shady refuge when her burning bravery starts to singe dreams, and her nails are glazed over with the color of a diamond-tipped wave. She submerges her toes in water and lets sand seep between the crevices of her bones in an attempt to drown the radiating brightness that surrounds her skin.
Her eyelids flutter like the cherry blossoms that long for adventures, tear drops from her eyes turn to dew drops, laced in spider webs as white as the seashells she spreads under sparkling lemonade in a picnic basket. In the afternoon’s harsh sun, her eyes keep secrets behind dollar store sunglasses that she’ll smash on the moss covered rocks after she takes off her shoes, running wild along the cracked asphalt in a life that resembles an oil painting with still wet acrylics.
At night she sprints to abandoned amusement parks and chlorinated pools, she prefers secluded beaches but watching the artificial light dancing on the clear surface from under water is soothing. She likes to hike the mountains in minutes, with her friends panting in awe behind her. She stops and scrapes her ankles on the pedals of her bike as she reaches to pick colored flowers and weave them together before placing them as a crown atop her tangled hair.
She skinny-dips to clean some cuts that went unnoticed...
Iced tea, iced latte, ice cream, buzzing flies, mosquitos, sweat trickles into eyes, sweat trickles down back, baked hard earth, earth hard as concrete, cracks in the ground like the lines on a wizened old face, black tarmac scorching hot, sun screen, sun speckled shade, dappled shade, electric fan, muggy, humid, hot as stew.
July was moving on toward high summer, face sweating, flies buzz around, shirt-less, sweltering heat. The earth was as hard as a biscuit. The cracks of the earth were like the wrinkles on a wizened old face. The earth was baked as hard as concrete.
Lazy days, hazy days, no school, summer hikes, bears out eating wild berries, chunky blue dragon flies, lily pads with flowers, swat away the midges. Climb the high hill, shear rocky drop ahead, view of the marshes surrounded by tall evergreens, picnic time, water for the dog, smile for the photograph.
Summer wanes and with it the vibrancy of the hottest months departs. The gaiety of the blooms passes, the flowers using the last of their strength to fatten seeds before they desiccate. The intoxicating aroma of the rose gardens gives way to the cool scent of wet grass. The petals are to the grey garden path what the leaves are in fall, fleeting in their whimsical beauty.
You feel warm and drained, though you’ve hardly done a thing to begin the day.