Quotes About Seasons

New York has an amazing history of farming and fishing that goes right back to the Pilgrim Fathers. At its core are the four seasons, which are distinct, well-established and similar to those in Lyon, where my family lives: when it's snowing in New York, a week later it will be snowing there.

Now the brave man. In dark hours he endures silently, uncomplaining. Reverencing the round of heaven's seasons, he does what must be done, sustaining himself with the certainty that to endure injustice with patience is the mark of piety and wisdom.

loud: for a son who was a hunter, for a daughter who would look after her parents when they were old, for an easy birth. The animals knew the goodness of that place. Caribou, lynx, bear came to drink. Muskrats made their lodges along the banks of the outlet rivers that flowed to the North Sea. In summers there were birds—mergansers, grebes, loons. In winter, the lake was a fine place to catch blackfish

Every day I took some time outside where I forged new connections with the animals in my yard, including the spiders who came to spin at night, the plants, trees, and mosses, the sky shifting with the seasons. Such moments grounded me. They caused me to feel the slow rhythm of the earth, to surrender to it and to honor my own natural rhythms. And in such awareness there is always healing. Ultimately nature heals because it reminds us that as humans, we are nature.

After my first winter in the North, I had an entirely new appreciation for heat.

Of pumpkins and parsnips and walnut tree chips.

He was among trees then, spring trees tender with the new matchless green of young leaves, and a clear sun dappling them; summer trees full of leaf, whispering, massive; dark winter firs that fear no master and let no light brighten their woods. He learned the nature of all trees, the particular magics that are in oak and beech and ash.

So the shortest day came, and the year died

Where did they go? Where the leaves go in autumn, Will said. Bran looked at him and seemed suddenly to relax; he grinned. There's poetic, now. Will laughed. It's true. Of course, the trouble with leaves is, they grow again...

She was back in western Washington state, where rain was so prevalent that a day of sunshine was the lead story on the local news.

The garden flourished that summer because Magnus's mother was determined to feed her family despite the depredations of the distant war. In the fall, there were beans and tomatoes and pickles to can, and jar after jar of applesauce. Mama's hives yielded fresh honey, and then willow skeps were winterized. The bees would not come out until the air warmed and the sun appeared.

Seeing him amid the yellow leaves and berry-colored hips of the spent roses, and the fading hollyhocks gone to seed along the garden wall, filled her heart.

Here, he felt like a stranger in a strange- and extremely seductive- land. In contrast to the places of his past, Bella Vista seemed weighted by a sense of permanence- the old country house with its courtyard and patios, the rustic stone barn and machine shop, outbuildings and weathered work sheds, the acres of age-gnarled apple trees, now covered in springtime blooms. He wondered what it would be like to watch the seasons change all in one place, year after year.

In my mind are all the tides, their seasons, their ebbs and their flows.

The Ache of Autumn in Us There is a season for everything, a time for giving birth, a time for dying; a time for tears, a time for laughter; a time for mourning, a time for dancing. . . . —Ecclesiastes 3:1,2,4 The trees grow more restless; October wind weaves through them; they shake their arms in dismay as if to fight the coming cold and the grief of leaves going. Autumn air does a heart-dance on branches already gone barren; the misty air clings to golden leaves

Snake's Lullaby Brother, sister, flick your tongue and taste the flakes of autumn sun. Use these last few hours of gold to travel, travel toward the cold. Before your coils grow stiff and dull, your heartbeat slows to winter's lull, seek the sink of sheltered stones that safely cradle sleeping bones. Brother, sister, find the ways back to the deep and tranquil bays, and 'round each other twist and fold to weave a heavy cloak of cold.

The Kingdom of Summer In my mother's cellar there were realms of golden apple, rooms of purple beet, hallways of green bean leading to windows of strawberry and grape. In her cellar there were cider seas and pumpkin shores, mountains of tomatoes— pickle trees. When I walked down the steps and pulled on the light, I saw where she kept the Kingdom of Summer.

I've set the vast majority of my books in New England because that's where I live. I love this part of the country the gentle hills, the lush forests, the cycles of the seasons, the ocean, the quiet lakes and rivers that spread across the region. And, then of course, there's that Yankee spirit, which is a combination of optimism and responsibility, rugged individualism and a strong sense of community. I consider myself and my characters very lucky to live in New England.

I love life, even when bad things happen to me. I can't stop loving it. Every season of the year comes with a promise that something wonderful is going to happen to me someday.

I'm quite used to a February chill (as well as that of any month with an R in its name)

We don't dwell on the business of Korra restoring everyone's bending in 'Book 2,' but we figured she got around to helping the innocent people who lost it in the months between the seasons.

It's definitely intense to walk away from at the end of each season.

The difference between a gun and a tree is a difference of tempo. The tree explodes every spring.

Each season is a forerunner of the next, and as the earth revolves, we learn to adjust, and consent to, the alterations.