Pile Of Leaves Quotes & Sayings

ALS is like a lit candle: it melts your nerves and leaves your body a pile of wax. — Mitch Albom

The leaves of our blessed lives fall to the ground and if we're wise like my grandfather, we gather them in a pile and keep them safe lest the winds of forgetfulness blow them away. — Philip Gulley

But I'm afraid to sleep!" Whispered Trista. "What if I fall to pieces before I wake up? What if tomorrow I'm just a pile of leaves and sticks tucked under a blanket? What if this is the last time I've got left, and I waste it all being asleep, then wake up dead?"
For a moment Violet looked conflicted. Then her jaw set, and she took Trista by the shoulders.
"You won't," she said gently but firmly. "I'll make sure you don't. I'll be watching you sleep. And if your hair starts to turn into leaves, or anything like that, I'll wake you up."
"You promise?" Trista felt the icy, titanic force of her terror recede a step or two. "You ... you won't leave me when I sleep and go out?"
"I promise," said Violet, with a firmness in her tone that allowed no doubt. Her dark grey eyes were resolute as flint. — Frances Hardinge

Never jump into a pile of leaves with a wet sucker. — Charles M. Schulz

Puck threw Ash a mocking smile. "You look like crap, Prince. Did you miss
me?"
Ash frowned, stabbing a faery that was clawing at his feet. "What are you
doing here, Goodfellow?" he asked coldly, which only caused Puck's grin to widen.
"Rescuing the princess from the Winter Court, of course." Puck looked down
as the wire-fey piled on the squealing boar, ripping and slicing. It exploded into a pile of leaves,
and they skittered back in confusion. "Though it appears I'm saving your sorry ass, as well."
"I could've handled it."
"Oh, I'm sure." Puck brandished a pair of curved daggers, the blades clear as
glass. His grin turned predatory. "Well, then, shall we get on with it? Try to keep up, Your
Highness."
"Just stay out of my way. — Julie Kagawa

If trees had love, instead of leaves, I'd gladly rake you into a pile on my lawn and fall into you. — Jarod Kintz

But at the end of the white board, the edge, where you'll come down with your weight to make it send you off, there are two areas of darkness. Two flat shadows in the broad light. Two vague black ovals. The end of the board has two dirty spots. They are from all the poeple who've gone before you. Your feet as you stand here are tender and dented, hurt by the rough wet surface, and you see that the two dark sports are from people's skin. They are skin abraded from feet by the violence of the disappearance of people with real weight. More people than you could count without losing track. The weight and abrasion of their disappearance leaves little bits of soft tender feet behind, bits and shards and curls of skin that dirty and darken and tan as they lie tiny and smeared in the sun at the end of the board. They pile up and get smeared and mixed together. They darken in two circles. — David Foster Wallace

Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under
them, too, don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves. — Frank O'Hara

Stop him, stop this, she commanded herself. Reason floated away; she wanted him. If he walked away now, she might disintegrate into a pile of frustration as fragile as the leaves crumbling under foot.
His lips touched hers, shooting electric shock waves rippling to her toes. Then he claimed her with a torrid kiss. Passion welled up from her core, overpowering all thought except her desires. — Lisa Carlisle

Yes, she was the girl playing basketball with all the boys in the park, collecting cans by the side of the road, keeping secret pet kittens in an empty boxcar in the woods, walking alone at night through the rail yards, teaching her little sister how to kiss, reading out loud to herself, so absorbed by the story, singing sadly in the tub, building a fort from the junked cars out in the meadow, by herself in the front row at the black-and-white movies or in the alley, gazing at an eddy of cigarette stubs and trash and fall leaves, smoking her first cigarette at dusk by a pile of dead brush in the desert, then wishing at the stars
she was all of them, and she was so much more that just just her that I still didn't know. — Davy Rothbart

If someone asked her just then what memory was, what the purest definition of memory was, she would say this: the street you were on when you first jumped in a pile of dead leaves. She was walking it right now. With every fresh crunch came the memory of previous crunches. She was permeated by familiar smells: wet woodchip and gravel around the base of the tree, newly laid turd underneath the cover of soggy leaves. She was moved by these sensations. — Zadie Smith

Singing at the Edge of Need by Susan Laughter Meyers (fragment)
Three things I turned my back to: light,
the past, the trunk of an old tree.
One by one each unfastened itself.
To sit is to present when the roll is called.
I knew that. I wore my hat of straw, fringed
like fingers sifting a breeze. My hat
collecting a thousand thoughts ...
... I had no map
and few lessons yet to guide me.
I was a study of questions. O Grandmother,
I was small, sitting in the midst of wildness,
a child thrilling at the boss of thunder.
A rustle of leaves, moss tipping at me-
I was small, I was hunger, I was thirst-
wings flitting in a brush pile. O Grandmother,
I was small, kneeling in the midst of wonder,
quaking and singing at the edge of need. — Susan Laughter Meyers

Hope is a demon. It convinces you to believe in something better, persuades you the outcome will be favorable, and whispers eagerly in your ear that the miracle you so desperately need will happen. Then it crushes you. Hope only leaves you fallen and bleeding in its aftermath, nothing more than a pile of misery and desolation. — Laura Kreitzer

Halloween. Sly does it. Tiptoe catspaws. Slide and creep. But why? What for? How? Who? When! Where did it all begin? 'You don't know, do you?' asks Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud climbing out under the pile of leaves under the Halloween Tree. 'You don't really know!' — Ray Bradbury

If I got lost along the way I had a compass that I had found embedded in a pile of wet leaves I was kicking my way through. The compass was old and rusted but it still worked, connecting the earth and stars. It told me where I was standing and which way was west but not where I was going and nothing of my worth. — Patti Smith

From seaport to seaport, papers accumulate on the captain's desk. "Paperwork has become the bane of this job," he says. "If a ship doesn't have a good copying machine, it isn't seaworthy. The more ports, the more papers. South American paperwork is worse than the paperwork anywhere else in the world but the Arab countries and Indonesia." Deliberately, he allows the pile on his desk to rise until a deep roll on a Pacific swell throws it to the deck and scatters it from bulkhead to bulkhead. This he interprets as a signal that the time has come to do paperwork. The paper carpet may be an inch deep, but he leaves it where it fell. Bending over, he picks up one sheet. He deals with it: makes an entry, writes a letter - does whatever it requires him to do. Then he bends over and picks up another sheet. This goes on for a few days until, literally, he has cleared his deck. The — John McPhee

Do not work primarily for money; do your duty to patients first and let the money follow; our life is short, we don't live twice; the whirlwind will pick up the leaves and spin them, but then it will drop them and they will form a pile. — John Hersey

Chilled-looking people walking along the riverside, the snow beginning, faintly, to pile up on the roofs of cars, the bare trees shaking their heads left and right, dry leaves tossing in the wind. The silver of the metal window sash sparkling coldly.
Soon after, I heard sensei call, "Mikage! Are you awake? It's snowing, look! It's snowing!"
"I'm coming!" I called out, standing up. I got dressed to begin another day. Over and over, we begin again. — Banana Yoshimoto

We go outside.
We rake the leaves.
We pile them way up high.
We jump on top.
We toss them up and watch the colors fly.
What can we do with all these leaves?
I know. I have a plan.
We run inside and find old clothes.
We'll make a pumpkin man.
We button all the buttons.
We tie up legs and sleeves.
We fill and stuff the body with lots of crunchy leaves.
We give him gloves.
We give him boots.
We're having so much fun.
It's time to pick a pumpkin head.
We'll find the nicest one.
Some are short and some are tall.
Some are bumpy.
Some are small.
We look around the pumpkin patch.
We find the best of all!
We cut the top to get inside.
We scoop out all the seeds.
We draw a face and cut it out.
A light is all it needs.
We go outside at sunset, put the pumpkin head in place.
Our pumpkin man smiles back at us with a happy, glowing face. — Judith Moffatt

So know this name. Shout it back at the enemy when he attacks. Comfort yourself and others with it. When the bills pile up and the money isn't there to pay them, Jehovah Shammah! When your spouse leaves you and the loneliness surrounds like a fog, Jehovah Shammah! When affliction strikes and the pain is so intense you think you will die, Jehovah Shammah! When you weep silently in the midnight hour over things you cannot tell your family or friends, Jehovah Shammah! And when the final hour of this life comes, and the darkness of death closes in around you, look for the light. In just a little while, you will stand face to face with Jehovah Shammah, The Lord who is there. — Terri Lynn Main

Go get something to eat." He glanced at Featherwhisker. "You may as well go, too, and while you're at the fresh-kill pile, you can bring me back a morsel to eat. I've had a busy morning." Bluefur glanced around at the clearing. It was scattered with herbs lying amid fallen leaves, and a patch of grass was flattened in one corner where the sun pooled. It was the exact shape of a plump medicine cat. Busy? Huh. — Erin Hunter

I shake my head. I pick up the rake and start making the dead-leaf pile neater. A blister pops and stains the rake handle like a tear. Dad nods and walks to the Jeep, keys jangling in his fingers. A mockingbird lands on a low oak branch and scolds me. I rake the leaves out of my throat.
Me: Can you buy some seeds? Flower seeds? — Laurie Halse Anderson

That's just something instinctual within men. We always feel like we've got to protect our stuff. Even if it's not worth protecting, we want to protect it. You ever seen people who have like a piece of crap Pinto with a Club on the steering wheel. Somebody breaks the window, steals the Club, leaves the Pinto in a pile of glass. — Jeff Foxworthy

I didn't feel like a man just then. I felt like a five-year-old boy who didn't want to do anything except play in a pile of leaves. A five-year-old boy with a greedy heart who wanted his grandmother to live forever. — Benjamin Alire Saenz

She re-read his email four times, feeling offended and breathless, like he had casually grabbed her head and stuffed it into a pile of wet leaves. — Molly Ringle

Later that night, I sat in my room thinking of what I just went through. The four of us had burned the body in an old pit and covered the burned remains with a pile of leaves. Just standing there, watching the crackling fire burn and cripple the bones of this thing just reminded me of how real this all became. My mom was not too happy when I came home late and smelling like a crematorium. — Sara Massa

We hear the stories every day now: the father who puts on a suit every morning and leaves the house so his daughter doesn't know he lost his job, the recent college grad facing up to the painful reality that the only door that's open to her after four years of study and a pile of debt is her parents'. These are the faces of the Obama economy. — Mitch McConnell

I thought about how the past can become so small. An entire day, 24 separate, heavy hours, becomes the size of a tiny brown leaf falling from a tree. Before you know it, a whole year is just a pile of dead leaves on the ground. The year or so I'd spent in love with Chad was starting to feel so long ago, swept away by the wind. I knew that this year would soon feel far away too. — Kimberly Novosel

Innocence alone can be passionate. The innocent have no sorrow, no suffering, though they have had a thousand experiences. It is not the experiences that corrupt the mind but what they leave behind, the residue, the scars, the memories. These accumulate, pile up one on top of the other, and then sorrow begins. This sorrow is time. Where time is, innocency is not. Passion is not born of sorrow. Sorrow is experience, the experience of everyday life, the life of agony and fleeting pleasures, fears and certainties. You cannot escape from experiences, but they need not take root in the soil of the mind. These roots give rise to problems, conflicts and constant struggle. There is no way out of this but to die each day to every yesterday. The clear mind alone can be passionate. Without passion you cannot see the breeze among the leaves or the sunlight on the water. Without passion there is no love. — Jiddu Krishnamurti