winter trees - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Upon each tree born wand, naked from winter's rasp, come the buds of spring. Each tells of green leaves to come, or the sweet blossom within. Even as cold winds blow, they are such embryonic joy.
When the trees have almost cried their last golden tears for the passing of the warm season, glossy on the rain-washed street, winter is at hand. The sky is of rolling clouds, a thousand greys from deep to pale. In the morning half-light the evergreens are blackish-green silhouettes and the snowy mountain peaks behind them are every child's Christmas dream.
Winter trees line the next avenue. Their denuded forms stand starkly against the snow, almost like charcoal outlines sketched by a passing artist. Along limbs that not long ago were adorned with the vibrant colours of autumn lies an unblemished white layer. They are the trees of storybooks, of paintings and christmas cards and as I pass I can't help but extend an ungloved had to feel the rough bark.
Winter trees shiver in the bitter wind, naked branches adorned with snow. Clusters of twigs, gnarled and twisted, extend like the very hands of old man winter, ready to catch the soft falling flakes. Against the dark mossy trunk the brilliant white drifts rise in soft curves and fall again to the hidden ground. It will be some time before the trees awaken and when they do it will be a slow stirring, gradually growing unnoticed buds until finally the delicate papery leaves and blooms within are ready.
Gazing at the winter trees it's hard to imagine them re-clothed in their finery. With roots buried deep in the frozen earth they sleep, their twigs moving in the breeze, stirring their wintry dreams. Ice forms and melts, snow showers come and go; then each spring the first delicate blossoms and leaves send a frisson of joy through the neighbourhood. Yet as summer wears on we take the deep green leaves for granted until finally they blush the colours of autumn.
After last season the winter trees simply did not wake. We feared they were dead, that they had died in their seasonal slumber, but our tests showed living cores. The farmers, the biologists and the gardeners floated tens of conflicting theories, but still they remained in their wintry form - bare limbs extending into the blue sky. The birds hopped on the boughs that stubbornly refused to grow buds. The trees stayed that way all through the summer and fall, only looking right in the winter time under the flurries of snow. When they remained bare the next spring the concern intensified, next came the failure of the wheat seed to germinate. Each one remaining inanimate in the soil...
I half expect the winter trees to sneeze under the snow they carry, sending it raining down onto the newly white ground below. With the dampness in the air the bark has grown darker than it is in the summer time, from mid-brown to a sable hue.
By the morning the winter trees are iced as thickly as the christmas cake frosting. Yesterday they were rough twigs, their beauty having fallen to the ground in autumn. Today they capture the eye and raise the spirit; today they are living art, regal in the brilliant sun-rays. Were the bark silvery and white they might not be so pretty, for me it is the contrast of the pure white snow against the deep brown bark that perfects the scene.
Winter trees stand amid twisting roots that writhe until each disappears into the frozen soil. Rough bark glistens with early morning frost, just enough to whiten the raised ridges. Dark cracks lie in the bark like scars, yet each woody crevice only serves to make them all the more bewitching.
For me the poem of winter lies locked in the sleeping trees; for they stand silently dreaming of spring. It is the poetry that bursts forth in the sunshine when the gentle warmth bids the winter farewell. Each leaf is a word more beautiful than can be spoken, each petal a gentle refrain. It isn't a poetry for the ears but the eyes, a poetry that needs no translation.
The winter trees stand like a song half sung, unsure of the melody to come. Only when the wind breathes warm once more will they recall the rolling words and unfurl them green in the sun. Until then they are mute, forlorn in the wind and it is all I can do to whisper warm words as I pass.
It was summertime when my deep sleep began, now the winter is upon us. Waking to see the trees was like being shown a flash of a movie instead of real life. For me they were stunning in swathes of green just yesterday and now they are like awkward teenagers standing around not sure what to do. Perhaps tomorrow I will cease to be shocked, perhaps when I leave this air conditioned cocoon and feel the keen bite of the wind I will know how much time has passed.