A wave of Time hangs motionless on this particular shore. I notice a tree, arsenical grey in the light, or the slow Wheel of the stars, the Great Bear glittering colder than snow, And remember there was something else I was hoping for.
Her fatigue was gone; she felt vital and strong, like a tree coming back to life in the springtime, vibrant with sap, ready to put out buds and then blossoms.
She was sitting in a garden more beautiful than even her rampaging imagination could ever have conjured up, and she was being serenaded by trees.
If I were an alcoholic, I’d work at a wine farm, where grape booze grows on trees, bottled and ready to chug.
I make money using my brains and lose money listening to my heart. But in the long run my books balance pretty well.
Thinking about such things soothed the creature as it dug at the base of a tall oak tree, deep into the ground, covering itself with dirt and leaves and moss; hiding, healing, waiting.
August has passed, and yet summer continues by force to grow days. They sprout secretly between the chapters of the year, covertly included between its pages.
An apple tree is just like a person. In order to thrive, it needs companionship that's similar to it in some ways, but quite different than others.
In her orchard the trees had been born from deaths; they marked and grew from the remains of the children that had passed through her.
I was thinking how complicated life is and how there are no simple roads or paths. We are a fabric of mistakes and hurts; a family tree of fumbled attempts, successes and failures.
Here I find the true nature of the tree - not in the bulk of its shape but in the way its form alters my vision of the world.
The nutcracker sits under the holiday tree, a guardian of childhood stories. Feed him walnuts and he will crack open a tale...
All ethics and morals are culturally relative. And Esme's reaction taught me that while cultural relativism is an easy concept to process intellectually, it is not, for many, an easy one to remember.
A serious prophet upon predicting a flood should be the first man to climb a tree. This would demonstrate that he was indeed a seer.
My love is shaped like a dog whistle—the sound, not the thing. As a lover, I’m a fighter. But dogs have more bark than me—and so do trees.
If Twinkies grew on trees, as nature intended, then I would like to irrigate your fertile valley. When we make love, bring your own knitting equipment.
William Penn would be a great pen name. But for love letters to manicured lawns, trees, and benches, the best name would be Nicholas Parks.
I wish I could climb the corporate ladder like I could climb a tree, but I can’t, because I’m afraid of heights. And bark.
Love is like a forest, I think as I kill trees by squandering toilet paper while “decorating” my ex girlfriend’s front yard.
you were and always will be that first ever touch to have fertilized the ground beneath my life’s trees that first ever rose to have fragranced the rest of my memories.
If love played an instrument, I’ll bet it would be the piano. 88 keys, double infinity, and the ability to chop down trees with a sharpened mustache.
