Winter - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Winter arrives, an icy serenade, a coolness to bring out the warmth within.
The winter sun brought out the purity of the heaven-given snow, as if were a blank page for our merriment, inviting the feet to play and the spirit to laugh.
This winter I'm gonna win. Let the ice crackle underfoot, for it is nothing as compared to this warm heart and the fire burning within, that steady pilot flame. That's the thing about these tough times, the most loving win because we dig in, we get determined when the greedy cut and run. So, that winter wind with its toothy bite is nothing but excitement to me.
The winter is such crystalline joy, those brilliant rays that show the uniqueness of every snowflake. It is the time of puddles that become transient skating rinks and for my thoughts to remain cozy within a woollen hat. It is the time when the sunniest of days are warm even in when I can see my breath rise as neat and pure vapour. It is the days of quiet poetry forming in my soul as if it calls to the spring flowers that will soon blossom.
The wintry sun is the brightness of the day, taking centre stage as the blooms of the summertime become a part of the soil. The sunshine and cold, the sparkle and the ice, somehow warm even when the north wind bites. There will be days I wish to stay in the warm, to observe from a duvet, fingers wrapped snuggly around some cocoa... yet somedays the winter takes my hand and shows me its beauty, that in truth, it is but the dawn of spring.
The river appears still, yet she flows under the thinnest of ice, awaiting the gentle touch of the sun. Though the air bares only the coldness and the ground is frozen once more, they glitter with the gift of each nascent ray. It is as if God ensured there would be hope even on the deepest and most wintry of days, asking us to see the sparks that remain even when the world is frozen. And so I choose not to see the blanket of ice but the waters that remain deep and moving, ever onward to join the ocean in its slow yet sure way.
Wintry trees stand as ballet dancers poised to show the world their grace, strength showing in how they remain so still in the seasonal gusts. Now that the leaves have fallen, they are so proud, as if their silvery-brown skin was their glory all along. I lift my head into the wind, eyes open for this softly lit day. Cold is good if you are warm inside, just the same as we love ice in the summer time.
Before the cold winds come to breathe our world anew, before snow makes our familiar streets a canvas for dreams, I see each sculpted flake with eyes at rest, the chaotic dance of billions uniting over the earth. These daydreams are my hearth-fire, bringing the hint of a newborn smile, one that lifts every part of what I am. I ask the icy wind to bring me to higher senses, to wake within that which rested in the easy summer days; for in these dreams are wintry puddles, silver-blue in the path, as if they were nascent moons born to shine. Then, as if I can contain this energy surge no-longer, I run... I run past trees with skin the hue of spring soil, through shadow and light just the same.
The journey was rough and cold. The men rode sluggishly swaying left and right so to almost fall off their horses. They were hardly able to keep their eyes open and every so often would close them, until a more vigorous breeze would rouse them suddenly. They were head to toe in thick winter wear made from seal skin and had many layers underneath as well as that. But nevertheless the pain throbbed and at the same time numbed of the frostbite which had gotten into their gloves and boots, it felt as if there were icicles in their hands and feet which were piercing deeper with even the slightest of wind. Although it did keep them more awakened and less fatigued throughout their journey, they were still decided that this one was their worst yet.
They were riding Northwards so they had better get used to it for the lands were even colder there. The North was nothing but a vast and thick blanket of hoary-white snow outspread for miles, all accompanied by a featureless skyscape, save for some cumulus clouds floating adrift at the fore of the sun, but just enough for splintered light to slip through and give some Sol.
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.
As the long summer days linger in our memories, nature rests her rainbow palette. In their place she brings out the colours of beach and woodland, soothing us into a quiet reflection. We walk through pictures shown so beautifully by the winter sun; each as bathed in love as the one before. Be it the blue of sea or sky, or every shade of brown from almost white to almost black, it brings a peaceful harmony. Yet in this choir of colours, mother nature keeps by a little green, a little red, for the holly tree, the evergreens and robins. And after this rest, this deep breath of cool fresh air, we are ready for the sweet mischief of spring.
Under a dove grey sky the colours of my world don their winter coats, each hue darker and richer than before. The path sparkles and crunches, like sugar underfoot, and the coolness brings me right into the now, into the moment of life. Though the flowers sleep and the trees show their lofty arms once more, a smile plays upon these cold lips. For as much as I love the summertime, I love the winter too. For every perfume of the meadow, there is the earthy loam of the newly-lit forest floor.
There is a warmth that tumbles out in the winter time; when all else is so cold. It radiates from those who love and nurture as easily as they breathe. In truth, the sparks of warmth are always there no matter the season, just like a warm rock blends into a summer beach, yet melts winter ice.
It is now winter; the hibiscus is no longer in bloom. The red slowly faded, petals falling off each day. I still look out the window, however, longing for it to be spring again. Longing to be able to turn back time. To a time where the blossom trees are full of pale pink petals, creating awnings over pavements. To a time where you could go out without a jacket and wear t-shirts instead of big jumpers. To a time where hibiscuses bloom. The trees are filled with brown, dead leaves now. Angry skies, harsh winds, fierce clouds. Rain is more frequent, air is cooler. “A white Christmas” never happens. That’s just a cliché made to get your hopes up; to make winter sound less cruel and dark. The snow doesn’t glisten. It’s crushed by muddy boots, leaving brown scars. Each Christmas song drilling into my head causing nothing but headaches and migraines. It feels wrong to have Christmas this year.
The air is frozen lace on my skin, delicate and cold, like winter waves on sallow sand. The sky is washed with grey, watery light illuminating thin patches to brilliance. In some moments I am watching my boots over the frozen sidewalk, perfect concrete slabs, flat and square, and in others transfixed to the interplay of cloud and sun above. For some reason my mind conjures a stone mosaic made beautiful by the shards of a mirror and I want to keep my eyes heaven bound while my imagination makes them one thing. Only the slipping of my feet brings my attention earthward once more, the need to stay upright pulling my mind into the present.
The rain has lost the ambient temperature of early fall, freezing and paling my skin on contact. The path through the park is muddy water in motion, filling deep puddles that hide the ruts of dryer weather. To feel it isn't enjoyment, not fun like the gentle sunshine of springtime, yet it is a part of life and I want to feel it just the same. I want to experience each drop, together and apart, same and different. I want to see the droplets soaking my eyelashes before they join their brethren on the ground like saltless tears. I need to be in this, chaotic and wild, just like my mind and soul - like nature looked right into me and pulled the weather out.
I speak of seaside air that calls
to olden leaves that won’t let go
from twigs and weathered branches dark
to rest on salt; no land below
and taunts with warbling journey-songs
to fowl that shan’t escape the frost,
not meaning harm, but moving on
to Spring once Winter’s chill is lost.
Though the winter had been long, the first signs of spring grew boldly, as if commanding the warm weather to come all the faster. It was as if the teeth of winter had shattered and the kiss of a new season approached. Joanna breathed in deeply, so wanting the pretty flowers and blossoms that she could almost smell the promise of their fragrance. Just to imagine the change of season relaxed her and she walked down the wide avenue with her favourite, her steps bolder than they had ever been before.
Even on the coldest days of winter the sun is bright in the sky, bringing joy to my heart. The snow has a purity that elevates my spirit, the world made as pristine as a book ready for new stories. Already my creativity is surging, dancing around the evergreens with the delight of a child. Even the coldness upon my face is refreshing, my body cozy inside a warm coat.
Under the wintry air and the sky that has born black clouds since November came, the harbour is as grey as a newspaper picture. The sea has given up her blue, the stones show no russet colours and the boats have taken on the monochrome look of old movies. Even the air tastes more dull. The wind whips salt into eyelashes and onto exposed skin and all the while the trams run along the beachside with a clatter and whir.
For years I had lived winter and summer in separate houses, believing them to be both necessary to my wellbeing. Yet truly, my heart was in my summer house and this time, when winter called, I refused with a simple shake of my head. The months rolled by regardless and snow did fall on my summer house. In my tall boots I strode out to meet the world made anew and clapped my hands for joy, for the sight of the home I only associated with the warm weather was prettier than my imagination had ever conjured before. That year new life was breathed into my bones and I chose my summer home to be my only one.
The naked winter trees line the avenue. Our breath rises in visible puffs to join the darkened clouded night sky. There is a freezing chill in the air that brings crispness to the leaves, bejewelled with frost, that crunch underfoot. Rosy cheeked, we stamp to keep warm, pulling woollen hats over our reddened ears and tightening scarves over our blue-tinged lips. Teeth chatter and the cold seeps into our gloves numbing our fingers until they cease to bend properly, stiffened and frigid. Suddenly the illuminated sign on the bus appears, trundling slowly down the icy black road and we raise our arms to hail it.
When asked to describe winter in the arctic, I tell of the barren wasteland of brilliant white that sparkled like a fresh page in the wintry sun. I speak of the blustery, chilling subzero winds that bit at the little skin I dared expose to it. I describe the crystalline crunch of fresh snow after a blizzard that erased my footprints and set the world anew once more. After a month the extreme desolation began to seep into my very blood and even the winter wonderland around me could not jolt me from that isolated feeling. In that frigid, ice-kissed world I needed to make a determined effort to avoid frostbite, whose threat was ever-present. On the greyest days the ground and the sky seemed to melt into one and there was no horizon, just grey.
To enter the cemetery I must skirt around a pile of brown frosted leaves, the innumerable flashing fragments shine in the brilliant wintry light, for today there is no weather; no wind, no cloud, just subzero temperatures. Even the leaf stems lie white and sharp. Ahead the path glistens like white quartz, yet ice crystals on weary concrete is all it is. All this beauty over everything dead. And here I am to add to it with a bunch of pink roses in my gloved hand. I pause, my breath rising in visible puffs, then I remember why I came. I need to talk to her and this is the only way. I'm not here for her, not really. I'm here for me. The proximity to her frigid bones and the gift of flowers will close the gap between us for a moment, and in that brief window of time I will feel her love again.
The crisp, white snow has smothered summer. It appears somebody has laid a sparkling white sheet over what was once summer and put it to bed. However, there is beauty in the winter too. The way the snow is sprinkled down from a grey, clouded sky and floats to the ground with grace and elegance, so pure. But spring must eventually wake up and pull of the pale blanket, revealing all the beauty it holds and melting away the snowy days.
The winter wind howled through the desolate marsh and bit at his frozen skin. The bleak grey cloud overhead reflected perfectly his grey mood inside. These short days, these long nights, the dampness that crept into his weary bones and made them ache for summer again. Each footfall broke the frosted puddles that lay embedded in the hardened earth, each one was made in the autumn, when the hooves of the horses that were ridden over the path had each sunk several inches into the then soft soil. The world seemed to lie barren and lifeless before him as if God himself had put it to sleep.
We struggle through the knee-deep snow to a hut. Using our already numb hands we scoop the snow drift away from the rough wooden door and use our bodies to wedge it open. Inside it's as bare and barren as the landscape outside, no furniture at all. But there is a fireplace and kindling wood, a box of matches, some logs and a newspaper. We shiver violently in the draft that's oozing in from under the door as we build the fire. Then we sit around the fireplace waiting for the hut to become cozy and warm, to thaw our bodies and dry our wet clothes. Now that we have a crackling fire the winter weather seems less dreary and more like a wonderland. Less 'barren' and more ' picture perfect, beautiful and pristine.' The only thing missing is steaming mugs of hot chocolate.
The branches hang low with the weight of the snow, they are like my mother's arms when she returns from the green grocers, laden with winter squash and carrots. The green is still there under the brilliant white, contrasting perfectly in that "winter wonderland" sort of way. I'll need the snow shoes today, while the layer looks as solid as any forest floor I would sink right up to my knees or beyond. The sky is clear now, a perfect uninterrupted blue. It's odd to think that the grass is still down there, surviving as best it can until the spring melt, entombed in the compacted and icy layers lower down. After yesterday's storm the top layer is perfect powder, our coldest season doesn't get any better than this.
Thin frozen puddles crack under my winter boots. The bitter cold seeps through my woollen mittens, numbing my fingers until they feel thick and stiff, unable to handle the zipper on my parker. I make the most of cracking the thin ice, by midday the thaw will have begun and these will be no more than shallow pools of frigid water, not even deep enough to splash in.
Streetlights are misty in the light snowfall. Ice gently blankets the sidewalks and streets. The milky moon is an ornament hung in the midnight sky. The snowflakes dance and prance in the cold air. Winter is a wonderland.
The street looked like an unfinished painting. So much of the canvas was still perfectly white, as if waiting for the artist's hand to return. The morning light struggled through the murky cloud, but even in its weakness it was enough to blind. The air was of course cold, but Maisy hadn't expected the same dampness that comes before rain. Moving from the overbearing heat of the kitchen to the verandah was like sipping on ice-water in the height of summer, until her lips went blue and she scurried back to the roasting winter vegetables and baking apple pie.
I know the season has fully turned when bath day is something to dread. In the fairer weather each week passes by less pointedly, marked only by the finer food we eat on a Sunday and by the long sermons in church. But in these long dark months of winter the usual tepidness of the wash is so icy that I'm left shaking and blue. There are weeks that I fake it, splash water on my chapped face and just wipe the worst grime from my hands and feet. I take the soap that has lost all trace of softness and rub it against the wooden metal tub. My hair I make just wet enough to pass mother's scrutiny and then keep it tight under a bonnet all week long. Then I pull on the next week's clothes, the ones I will wear 'till next Saturday evening, and they always feel so thin. In its utter coldness the fabric feels wet and steals even more of my precious body warmth. I want my sweater back but I'm not allowed it until I learn better manners...
The mountain is pristine and white, even the dark green of the pines is mostly coated in the crystalline snow. I could stand here drinking it all in, listening to the silence that hangs so thickly in the frigid air. But I must keep moving to stay warm. I have the snow shoes, the jacket and the gloves, it's time to make tracks. With every step I hear the soft crunch underfoot and it's better than music to my ears. It is the sound that winter has returned, and with it all of my favourite sports. When this beauty thaws to mud once more I will accept it and make the most of spring, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't with a little heaviness. This season is my season, I love it.
But that had been seven months ago, a chill mid-February, when the bushes that screened the canal walk from the neighbouring council estate had been tangled thickets of lifeless thorn; when the branches of the ash tree had been black with buds so tight that it seemed impossible that they could ever crack into greenness; and the thin denuded wands of willow, drooping over the canal, had cut delicate feathers on the quickening stream.
Ethan was hoping for a white winter, but his dad was hoping for a not white winter. Every year they argued what this winter should be, white or not. Snow started to fall so his dad gave up, he went outside to play, he went to the field to play with the other kids, after hours his dad thought he was lost he went to mom and said "I think I am going to win all of the arguments over if the winter should be white or not." Mom said "Why do you think that?" His dad said "well there won't be competition." After a day Ethan came home and his father said "Where were you? I was worried." Ethan said "Jack in invited me for a sleepover at his house." His dad said "You should of called." Ethan said "The power went out, so I couldn't call. Dad went off. His mom said" He wasn't worried
We huddle out of the gusty winter wind into Starbucks for our spiced pumpkin lattes. Inside it's toasty warm and we sip and gossip, glancing out at the hazy fog, glad that we're cosseted in leather chairs. Seasonal music makes the atmosphere jolly and we are reluctant to return to the ice cold chill outside.
Weeks ago the mud froze solid, as hard as any rock. Now it lies covered in a blanket of pristine white and we shall not see its earthen brown until the spring thaw. Walking has become many times more difficult, even in snow shoes it takes more energy. To cross the yard in just boots is as bad as walking over the sand dunes in summer- you move forward with each step but sink a little too. Every time I must leave my home I wrap in the sheepskin coat my mother made, the hood up and a long think scarf wound about my face; and still the cold air penetrates right to my skin. Every breath I take gives my heat to the air in visible puffs and draws the icy air into my lungs, refrigeration from the inside. Every year we say we'll make one of those colourful igloos by freezing yoghurt tubs of coloured water, perhaps we will this year. All that's stopping us is a willingness to go outside unless it is absolutely necessary. The sun goes down so early and with it it takes away the sun rays...
I love winter. I love the hot chocolate with marshmallows melting into the whipped cream, snuggling up with candles burning, blankets draped over me, and most of all a brilliant book. I love the anticipation of snow, and the happiness it brings. I love the rain, whether it is heavy or light. I love the big jumpers and hot homemade soup that burns my tongue.
It was one of those early winter mornings that made Sophie sorry the fall had gone by so very fast. The damp sank right into her bones, reducing her skin to frozen paper. The sky was a uniform grey and the rain fell in a fine mist that made the use of an umbrella pointless. The wind gusted in its undecided way and the shoppers packed the streets in a pre-Christmas frenzy. But today wasn't a day for Sophie to shop or cosset herself in a coffee shop, today she had to take her cousin to the zoo.
June stared though the frosted mullioned window to the carpet of white that beckoned to her so enticingly. She sneezed again. Mom would never let her go out. She wondered if Santa was already packing up the gifts or if he too had a cold, or even worse, the flu! Her young skin furrowed with worry she glanced over to her stocking hanging at the fireplace. No! Santa would come, he and his reindeer would fly though the dark winter sky like they did every year.
Aaron rummaged in his shed at the bottom of the garden, and found a spade and a box that was suitable. Then he came out to his neat, bare, wintry garden. The girls flew towards him, putting the elastic of their hats under their chins as they ran. The tree and the box lay on the frozen earth. The air breathed dark, frosty, electric.
Icicles hung like Old Man Frost's beard. Icicles sparkled in the winter sunlight like jewelled daggers. Icicles dripped in the brightness of the winter afternoon, icicles hung like an inverted mountain range, glistening, bejeweled, dazzling, sparkling, mesmerizing.
Grass pale and stiffened with frost, last few browned leaves clinging to the otherwise bare branches of an oak tree, icicles hung from roof eaves, black ice on the concrete path, slippery and treacherous, roof tops glitter and sparkle with frost, chilled air. Winter is here.
The surface of the car should have been a glossy blue, but in the early morning it glistened pale under a layer of frost. On such mornings it's become my habit to lay my hand down flat on the hood to leave a print, I guess that's just the kid in me breaking out for a little exercise, a little dance in the sun. But this morning my hand stuck like glue and I had to yell for Mary to fetch warm water. The damn thing was frozen colder than a penguin corpse.
The snow comes, white and glistening, erasing the troubles beneath, directing me toward a new and positive day. The coldness only crispens up my resolve to find love today. Perhaps in this swirling perfect whiteness that gives crystalline kisses, the coolness in the air will rejuvenate my soul, elevate my spirit and give me new reasons to step forward with confidence. It might be winter but there is beauty in it, clarity, the kind of thinking that lets me notice small details like how the trees though bare have the promise of spring within them, like the creator Himself lies dormant in the branches, ready to burst forth and greet the world with His many hues of green.
On top of the mountain, set aside from the ski runs there is an ice-rink. Not the expensive kind you get in the city far below, but the kind you make with a hose and just let the water freeze in the sub-zero temperatures. Of course they have to clear it of snow each morning and several times a day, but the children love it. They skate too and fro, red cheeked and laughing while their parents drink egg nog and hot chocolates in the lodge.
Mama always made her home-made soups and stews on those crisp winter days. The stew would warm us down to our toes, radiating the kind of glow that only her hearty food could give.
peaceful, quiet, calm, glittering, white, frost, icy, wind, beautiful, snow, cold. She stood by the blazing fireplace, her breath fogging up the icy window pane while snow silently fell from the heavens, softly covering the ground in a glittering blanket of white. sparkling, cloudy, overcast, icicles, biting, frost-bite, freezing, dreary, snowballs, hot chocolate, jacket. She spoke out loud in wonder, watching her misty words float into the frozen air and dissolve in hushed beauty.
There is a freezing chill in the winters air that brings crispness to the leaves the beautiful forts that crunches beneath my feet my checks turn rosy red with every sting of the winters breeze
The snow falls from the dark covered sky's the colors of fall have vanished right before my very eyes all has turned white. When some think of winter they think cold and miserable when I think of winter I think Christmas + presents and snow falling all though the night and when I wake up I think SNOWBALL FIGHTS!!!!
Winter is here. The cold wind blows in my face, and I know what to expect next. All the streets will be covered in a white blanket by the end of next week. Great, just my luck. Now I will have to put my summer and fall clothes to rest until I see the yellow, warm sun again. As for now, darkness and sadness will begin to linger in the atmosphere. Everything will be hidden and forced to stop dancing. The singing will end, and I will not notice life from the outside. LIfe will seem just like a dream or faze of imagination. As for me, my happiness has shrunken down to hardly nothing and eventually I will slowly disappear from the transitioning seasons. I live for the bright and sunny days, not a frozen iceland.
The wintry Winter cold howled through the desolate field, which was covered with fluffy snow that was like a untouched blanket. You could feel the air being heavy as your lungs were filled with sharp cold and frost each time you breathed in. The bleak grey clouds overhead reflected their gloomy mood perfectly.
The snow fell outside my place of work as I endeavoured in my employment. Winter fast passed me during my labours; but I did not watch the falling snow or the river ice over—sights which before yielded me with extreme delight—so deeply I found myself engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of the year had withered before my work drew to its close; and now everyday mocked me, and jested at my unsuccessful research. How not could I commune with the soul of man?