And the Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
Transitions of time, at 7:05 a.m.
Red breasted robins hobbled on the grass, and bobbed for worms,
on the muddy bare spots on the ground.
Smaller black and white birds leapt from branch to branch.
The invisible dove cooed, as day broke,
And the train rumbled on its tracks.
The viburnum was dying to bloom.
The snow was blue.
I heard the muffled sound of sirens, blaring in the distance,
And saw my first red cardinal, taking cover, under an olive branch.
Spring was here!*
*Crops for the garden may be planned.
Watch for the waning, and waxing of the moon.
By Tiffany Creek
Being away from home can be disconcerting at times. Especially when it is frequent. I love to travel, but I also like to be home. I guess I’m kind of a homebody at heart. When the opportunity presents itself, however, to go somewhere else, I generally seize the moment. I always think, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ and no matter what, after going away, I more and more realize that if I don’t do something when I can, I would undoubtedly regret and wonder what I had missed out on. I don’t want to miss out on anything!
With all that said, it’s always good to come back, to sleep in my own bed and to be in familiar surroundings. After 35+ years in New England I would say I have become somewhat of a Yankee, though you can’t take the Midwestern soul out of my core.
A visit to this Raspberry Farm put my mind in motion about how good it is to explore the places in my own back yard. I stopped in on the way back from errands. I’ve passed it frequently and always wanted to pay a visit. That I did!
I went into the shop with the big ‘Welcome’ sign up. Generally, this is a place where you can pick your own, but on account of the rains the night before, the patch was closed, so instead, I bought a small box of raspberries and some vegetables, tomatoes, raspberry jam made on the place, and some local honey. I even grabbed a few recipes they had hanging on the door.
On my way out I thought to ask the saleslady if I could take some pictures of the farm. It is impressively well run, and obvious the owners put their everything into keeping it nice for the public. The pictures show how well run it is. Curiously the varieties are given French names, as you can see in the photos. Prelude is the only raspberry bush still producing. It gives two crops of fruit, one in the early summer, and again in August/September. I presume in October, they die out.
I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful blue sky and white fluffy clouds to bring out the late summer cheer of the the day. Bittersweetly the Autumn’s tune was playing in the air. Must enjoy the days, as short as they may be getting to be, and take in the transitions of a new season to come. They all have some beauty to share.
The gray, white, fluffy clouds
hang low in the baby blue sky.
The constant moon glows, and shines,
The trees bursting with buds
incline this way and that,
like a pregnant woman ready to give birth.
The bunny rabbit scurries
under the dark olive bush
wagging its white cotton tail.
The street light ignites
And the sun sets in the West,
on a horizon of many reds.
linger in the darkened sky
and the day light goes to bed.
The snow was all around today,
The trees laden, of white fluffy stuff, emerged in the gray blue sky.
There was a chill in the air.
No birds were singing.
The sound of shovels could be heard.
The tread of feet crunched in the snow paved drive,
Taking care of early morning rise.
The day began for many a hurried man,
As the day commences and the gray skies roll in, on this mid September day, I have thoughtless nothingness rolling through my mind. A vague recollection of a sweet dream, brought on by night fall’s misty stars. I try to wrap my mind around the blissful moment, but reality pushes out groggy sleep, to move onward with the tasks of the day. The vividness of the fantasy, moves ever further away, and I contemplate, that which comes next. The gray clouds loom over head, beckoning the arrival of much needed rain.
In the forest, wooden trunks, and structures
stark in sunlight, stand tall in their multitude.
Sentinels ready to file into Spring,
Inside, the cawing of crows, outside.
The ticking of the clock, on the mantel.
Shapes of sound, poured into silence
of time and space.
Lush earthy aroma of cinders in the chimney
permeate the air.
February, gone away,
March is still.
GRB ~ TiffanyCreek
“Twilight” Photo by GRB
When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.
In my youth, I made this calligraphy, “Dust of Snow”. My mom guided me in the process. Her love for the poetry of Robert Frost naturally influenced my choice of words. Having saved the original, she handed it over to me later in life. I cherish it for posterity. Beautiful in all its imperfection, it reminds me of who I was, and the person I grew to be today.