Is it Really True?
In February, Spring was in the air.
Roaring water in the brook cascaded down around the rocks forming small waterfalls.
The reassuring sound of splashing and gurgling put my mind at ease.
I felt grateful for the trails with the beautiful surrounding nature.
The gray, white, fluffy clouds
hang low in the baby blue sky.
The constant moon glows, and shines,
high overhead.
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
suddenly above,
And the sun sets in the West,
on a horizon of many reds.
The clouds
linger in the darkened sky
and the day light goes to bed.
By TiffanyCreek
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.
- Photo TiffanyCreek
There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.
There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother’s mother,
Elizabeth,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.
Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.
And I ask myself:
“Are your fingers long enough to play
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
and back to you again
As though to her?”
Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand:
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.
On Tiffany Creek 