“What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.”
― Kobayashi Issa, Poems

“When we are smitten, we await love to be “remontant” and to be blooming over and over again”, like remontant roses, with blossoms scenting through all the seasons of life. Passion and patience are to be good allies, though.”
― Erik Pevernagie

“Let us not subside into a single mandatory way of thinking or feeling, immersed by a spirit of self-gratification. But let’s dig into the fresh energy of new boundaries and at the same time pick the blossoms of poetry welling up along the path of our life, and enjoy the innocence of the little wonders of every day.
("A Thousand times touched." )”
― Erik Pevernagie

“A fallen blossom
returning to the bough, I thought --
But no, a butterfly.”
― Arakida Moritake, Traditional Japanese Poetry: An Anthology

“A poet is a verb that blossoms light in gardens of dawn, or sometimes midnight.”
― Aberjhani

“As the flower blooms in spring, compassion grows in mindfulness.”
― Amit Ray, Meditation: Insights and Inspirations

“Voll Blüten steht der Pfirsichbaum
nicht jede wächst zur Frucht
sie schimmern hell wie Rosenschaum
durch Blau und Wolkenflucht.

Wie Blüten geh'n Gedanken auf
hundert an jedem Tag --
lass' blühen, lass' dem Ding den Lauf
frag' nicht nach dem Ertrag!

Es muss auch Spiel und Unschuld sein
und Blütenüberfluss
sonst wär' die Welt uns viel zu klein
und Leben kein Genuss.”
― Hermann Hesse, Bäume: Betrachtungen und Gedichte

“Flowers enshrine my heart between their petals; that's why my heartbeats love them so much”
― Munia Khan

“Gardens in Spring
with flowers abound
their scent interwoven
in the wind”
― Meeta Ahluwalia

“Street children are lovely blossoms just dropped from the tree after a heavy storm. Now they need to be put together with a needle and threads of security and shelter to live into a beautiful circle of life’s garland”
― Munia Khan

“The scent of linden blossoms hung heavy on the air. Dortchen made a sharp, jerking movement, as if to walk away. But she hesitated, then turned and went down the long, winding path, past the tangle of briar roses and into the secret grove of linden trees. She picked a blossom and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply. Then she sat on the grass, the blossom cupped in her hand, leant her head back against the tree and closed her eyes. All she could hear was the soft sough of the wind in the leaves, and the humming of innumerable bees as they gathered the nectar from the creamy-white flowers.”
― Kate Forsyth, The Wild Girl

“Approaching the Start of Civil Exams

Perhaps I was once a young Chinese scholar
approaching the start of civil exams,
my mind grown weary and sad from seclusion
with books on syntax and poetic style.

All that I knew were the mist-covered mountains
and sweet white blossoms of mountain apples
that grew in the valleys of my province.

But I had been gone over six years
busy with studies in the Heavenly City
empty and thin despite my work.

I showed my verses to an older poet
who told me a truth I longed to believe:
all knowledge is futile and barren
which does not open the love of your friends.”
― Jim Chapson

“Under the stillness of an old tree -
a monk sits in silence,
the oak sheds it's leaves.”
― Meeta Ahluwalia

“George thrust into Alma's hand a lithograph of a spotted 'Catasetum.' The orchid had been rendered so magnificently that it seemed to grow off the page. Its lips were spotted red against yellow, and appeared moist, like living flesh. Its leaves were lush and thick, and its bulbous roots looked as though one could shake actual soil off them. Before Alma could thoroughly take in the beauty, George handed her another stunning print- a 'Peristeria barkeri,' with its tumbling golden blossoms so fresh they nearly trembled. Whoever had tinted this lithograph had been a master of texture as well as color; the petals resembled unshorn velvet, and touches of albumen on their tips gave each blossom a hint of dew.
Then George handed her another print, and Alma could not help but gasp. Whatever this orchid was, Alma had never seen it before. Its tiny pink lobes looked like something a fairy would don for a fancy dress ball.”
― Elizabeth Gilbert, The Signature of All Things

“Dortchen ducked through a gap in the trees, following a winding path to a small grove of old linden trees, their branches hanging with heavy creamy-white flowers. A hedge of briar roses, with delicate pink-white flowers blooming among the thorns, shielded them from the eyes of anyone walking past.
The garden was alive with birdsong. A blackbird looked at her with a cheeky eye, then hopped away to search for worms. The scent of the linden blossoms was intoxicating.”
― Kate Forsyth, The Wild Girl

“Autumn had arrived—
the last blossom whispered,
let me stay awhile.”
― Meeta Ahluwalia

“لا تقل بأن الموت أصاب كل شيء. ها أنت هنا، تقرأ لتثبت بأنه لا تزال هناك براعم صالحة. من المستحيل أن ينتصر الموت على إرادة الحياة، نحن نهزم عندما نستسلم فقط! في وسط ذلك الرعب كانت هناك ملالا لتقول لهم بأنها ستقاتل من أجل أن تدرس وتعلم الأخريات من الفتيات المحبات للحياة. وسط الركام والأنقاض هناك بذور صالحة ستنبت من جديد في الوقت المناسب.”
― جلجامش نبيل, Gilgamesh Nabeel, صراع الأقنعة

“Sal and Henry return with a gust of warm garden air and I settle down to create miniature roses from sugarpaste using tiny ivory spatulas and crimpers. I will have no antique tester bed crowning my cake, only a posy of flowers: symbols of beauty and growth, each year new-blossoming. I let Henry paint the broken pieces with spinach juice, while I tint my flowers with cochineal and yellow gum. As a pretty device I paint a ladybird on a rose, and think it finer than Sèvres porcelain.
At ten o'clock tomorrow, I will marry John Francis at St. Mark's Church, across the square. As Sal and I rehearse our plans for the day, pleasurable anticipation bubbles inside me like fizzing wine. We will return from church for this bride cake in the parlor, then take a simple wedding breakfast of hot buttered rolls, ham, cold chicken, and fruit, on the silver in the dining room. Nan has sent me a Yorkshire Game Pie, so crusted with wedding figures of wheatsheafs and blossoms it truly looks too good to eat. We have invited few guests, for I want no great show, and instead will have bread and beef sent to feed the poor. And at two o'clock, we will leave with Henry for a much anticipated holiday by the sea, at Sandhills, on the southern coast. John Francis has promised Henry he might try sea-bathing, while I have bought stocks of cerulean blue and burnt umber to attempt to catch the sea and sky in watercolor.”
― Martine Bailey, A Taste for Nightshade

“From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar of the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing,
from blossoms to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.”
― Li-Young Lee, Rose

“Clearings opened on either side. Familiar smells drifted in the air: fennel, skirrets and alexanders, then wild garlic, radishes and broom. John looked about while his mother tramped ahead. Then a new scent rose from the wild harvest, strong in John's nostrils. He had smelt it the night the villagers had driven them up the slope. Now, as his mother pushed through a screen of undergrowth, he saw its origin.
Ranks of fruit trees rose before him, their trunks shaggy with lichen, their branches decked with pink and white blossom. John and his mother walked forward into an orchard. Soon apple trees surrounded them, the sweet scent heavy in the air. Pears succeeded them, then cherries, then apples again. But surely the blossom was too late, John thought. Only the trees' arrangement was familiar for the trunks were planted in diamonds, five to a side. He knew it from the book.
The heavy volume bumped against his mother's leg. He gave her a curious look but she seemed unsurprised by the orchards. As the scent of blossom faded, another teased his nostrils, remembered from the same night. Lilies and pitch. Looking ahead, John saw only a stand of chestnuts overwhelmed by ivy, the glossy leaves blurring the trunks and boughs into a screen.”
― Lawrence Norfolk, John Saturnall's Feast

“God is here at Earth to accept our offering of fragrant colorful blossoms.”
― Mukesh Kwatra

“They drove up Third Avenue so that they might see the famous Stuyvesant pear tree on the corner of Thirteenth Street. Again for the two hundredth time its ancient boughs were loaded with blossoms. How strange it was that it could go on renewing itself in exquisite youth, when the hands that had planted it had so long ago fallen to dust!”
― Anya Seton, Dragonwyck

“Ginny had named her supper club after the prominent mesquite tree that shaded the home's picturesque front garden. She adored these deciduous trees---native to Arizona---with their soft, ferny canopies that dotted the desert landscape. The species of velvet mesquite on her property routinely produced fragrant spikes of yellow flowers in April and sometimes again in August after it rained. The blossoms reminded Ginny of random bursts of sunshine. She hoped all who saw them took them as a good omen, just as she had upon discovering the house.”
― Nicole Meier, The Second Chance Supper Club

“God is here on Earth to accept our offering of fragrant colorful blossoms.”
― Mukesh Kwatra

“It was always the favorite time of the year, for me at least. The world blossomed with new flowers, and new flowers blossomed with new hope. The world was like an art, a rejuvenating art drawn by an enthusiastic nature. The air was becoming warmer, and warmth had all to do with positives. It was the best time of the year, a time of warmth, a time of hope and a time of positives.”
― Tshetrim Tharchen, A Play of the Cosmos: Script of the Stars

“The sun may rise from the west or the stars may cover up the sky in the day but there’s no way you’ll ever grieve for my love. I am here and I’ll always love you. Best wishes, my eternal flower. Do blossom eternally.”
― Tshetrim Tharchen, A Play of the Cosmos: Script of the Stars

“Like every year, the peach flowers began to blossom, draping the orchard like a filmy pink dress. Thousands of tiny pink petals fluttered in the breeze. And as quickly as they came, they disappeared. The blossoms withered to leave only shucks, and tiny, hard peaches broke through the shucks and began to grow.”
― Jodi Lynn Anderson, The Secrets of Peaches

“time
our best friend
dilutes punishment from memory
where from the seed of pain
love blossoms”
― Daniel Gumiero

“When the feminine feels safe and at peace, everything around her blossoms.
This includes the lives of the people she respects and cares for.”
― Robin S. Baker

“oy is held in the seed of agony, for what was closed in the winds of grief, now opens as a flower. The bud that tightened, suddenly is awake and a new blossom unfolds.”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee