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.
Shelly
For Earth Day
Category: Spiritual
Dying to Bloom
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
Rosecran’s
Rosecran’s Cemetery was established as a National Monument in 1934, but many of the graves pre-date California before it was a state, in 1850.
Sparkle
Taking pictures helps me get in touch with feelings. Thoughts generally rush through my mind, and a mix of emotions, negative and positive can be all tangled up. When I go out with my camera, and interpret my surroundings, the scenarios I play back are put on hold.
Energy re-emerges in the waves beating against the shore. Anticipation and lethargy lie dormant within the rocks, which sit like dinosaurs on the beach. I imagine them stirring in slow motion. A golden sun, peaking out of gray clouds over still ocean water, signals optimism and hope. Self-expression comes in many shapes and forms, taking the place of words.
Photos were taken on the beach, in Carlsbad, California. Click on the images, for a full view, and titles.
Evelyn’s Rocker
Evelyn went to heaven
Through the gates of evermore.
To her friend, she said,
“Rock once more.”
By TiffanyCreek
The Little Flower Dies
Florinda Udall, born in May 1833, died at age 11 years and 8 months, on January 25th, 1845. She was the daughter of Alva and Phebe Udall, from Hiram, Ohio, and had one brother, named Edward. She was a schoolmate of Lizzie Atwood Pratt and Lucretia Rudolph Garfield.
Lizzie Atwood records the death of Florinda in her diary, on January 24th, 1845, which is in conflict with the death date, on the stone: “I spent the evening at Mr. Boyds. Florinda Udall one of my schoolmates died of Bowel Complaint, after 6 days illness AE 11 years, and 8 months.” On the 26th she writes: “Florinda was buried at the center of Hiram.” The diary entry is true to the tone of Lizzie’s writing, which was matter of fact, and sparing of emotion. This was the style of most of her writing. At 12 years of age, she proved to be an objective observer of events that took place around her, in her village, and does this as well, in the case of Florinda’s illness and death.
Florinda’s name, comes from the word ‘flora,’ meaning ‘flower’ in Spanish, and is derived from Latin. It must have been sad for family and friends, when their little flower died.
Cindy
Always had a smile,
My very best friend,
A little older,
At times, my mother hen.
You gave me a name,
I still keep today,
You were the one,
with whom I wanted to play.
But now, like then,
We have to part ways.
Others frowned at our friendship,
But little did they know,
You and I lived like sisters
Through our fun, and our woes.
Under the falling stars,
Those warm summer nights,
Blessed Mary, the only witness
of our dreams, to unfold.
Yes! Young, you have gone;
But you got your wishes, too,
With your horses, and children, and husband.
Their love is true.
Go peacefully,
knowing, I loved you, as well,
and in my heart,
our memory dwells.
For if not, pray tell;
What is the meaning of life?
Your friend,
Greta
TiffanyCreek
Our Sister
Her past was chiseled.
Simply fixed.
Our Sister,
Died,
at 26.
They called her Sarah.
From G-Ville, she came.
In name,
her memory persists.
TiffanyCreek
The Beauty of Imperfection
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.
My Grandmother’s Love Letters by Hart Crane
- 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 