Descriptive Analysis Of The Rose Garden

Vibrant hues of orange and yellow were smeared together and they played with violent shades of red. The rising sun rested in a bed of golden rose, cotton clouds. Its rays of light spilling over the hills like pale orange paint. At least, that's what I imagined this sunrise would look like in a world without skyscrapers and other assorted buildings suffocating the horizon, sucking the life out of the beauty that nature gives us, and replacing it with smoke, oil, and the stench of our ever growing need to expand. Our need, humanity's need to leave no blade of grass behind, to cover every inch of the earth with pollution and man made roads and structures, is what is destroying the beauty that nature provides.

Seeing as there was nowhere else to go, you shuffled over to the opening and frowned. It was dark and you could just barely make out a doorway to what was most likely another room. What really threw you off guard was how nicely the doorway was carved. An intricate pattern wove itself around the exit. Did that mean… someone else was here? At the thought of possibly being able to get out of here with the help of another person made you scurry over to the patterned doorway with little hesitation. The sleeves of your two-sizes-too-big sweater fell down to wrap loosely around your forearms when you reach over and grabbed the wall to peak around into the next area.

It’s the grassy greens, near the winding pebbly road I remember first. The long stalks of spinifex still line the edges, though now neatly trimmed all around. The uneven crunch-crunch-crunch of the gravel as I drive my sunny Porsche across town. Even in winter, bindies pepper the half soccer field, other foliage: a bush dotted with withered yellow berries and emerging saplings surround the patchy lawn like spectators. Smack bang in the middle, winter clawing its way in, stands a grandiose resilient oak, basking under the mild heat of the country sun, glorified as it houses two tombs. Its boughs stretch towards me invitingly and I smile…

The heat was overwhelming, the smell of pine and juniper was burning my nose and making my eyes water. The mist coming off of the glowing

“There were orchards, heavy leafed in their prime, and vineyards with the long green crawlers carpeting the ground between the rows. There were melon patches and grain fields. White houses stood in the greenery, roses growing over them. And the sun was gold and warm.

The brisk wind rustled the leaves and the branches murmured. The morning had been chilly and opaque, with a curtain of drizzle sweeping across the plains. The decaying morality and despair of humanity has affected the weather, or have I just ceased being able to see colour?

It was as if she didn’t care if I was even disposed of.” She turned around and walked toward the elevator. She pressed the button and (again) looked at her face in the mirror. This time, her reflection looked much more confident than before.

I slipped out of bed trying my hardest not to disturb Red. I could still hear the light, upbeat tune drifting through the open window. I don't know why but there was something that was drawing me towards the sound.

we walked out of the door and saw a bright light of fire on sticks and people burning

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his

Smells are my scrapbook of life. No one can erase or remove them. Each one comes with vivid memories, some enjoyed and some much rather forgotten. They belong to my nose that knows me best, this I

A gentle breeze touched the warmth of my cheeks, sparks were flying, as the fire fanned by the breeze, and was rapidly spreading. A temporary sensation entered my mind, as if a breeze ruffled through my thoughts. I remember visiting my grandparents over the summer, strolling along the majestically beautiful golden wheat field of the twelve-mile old dirt road leading to my grandparents’ house. My grandparent’s property was quite interesting. The house was a limestone structure with a front yard. The grape tree grew around the foundation, anchoring itself onto the pergola, it sort of wild on the top of the

As I left behind the somber forest, I now recognized an appreciation for nature that I did not realize I had. I now knew there was more to nature than just trees and animals, but also I found the

"A picture can paint a thousand words." I found the one picture in my mind that does paint a thousand words and more. It was a couple of weeks ago when I saw this picture in the writing center; the writing center is part of State College. The beautiful colors caught my eye. I was so enchanted by the painting, I lost the group I was with. When I heard about the observation essay, where we have to write about a person or thing in the city that catches your eye. I knew right away that I wanted to write about the painting. I don’t know why, but I felt that the painting was describing the way I felt at that moment.

The warm, humid air seeped through the cracked open windows and into the house. You could hear the sounds of birds chirping in the woods behind the house.