Monday, March 9, 2009


Gaked from vgford and eblgorton.

You can get it here:

Old Roses

This is from my Valentine's bouquet. My apartment is always hot, so they opened quickly, spreading the scent through my home.
It was raining and the scent of roses hung heavy on the air. She liked old roses best, they had the best perfume, but they didn't last as long as the kind you could buy in the florist shop. To make up for their short life, she had bushes and bushes by the back door, along the house and the fence behind. And every spring, into the summer, she cut bouquets for the house. And the scent of roses mingled with the scent of rain.

Sunday, March 8, 2009


Across from my brother's house are the Iris Gardens. Every June, hundreds of flowers bloom and dozens of photographers, artists, kids and dogs come to gape. The flowers are there to attract insects and fool them into playing matchmaker - moving pollen from one bloom to another.
The last thing she needed was another distraction. Already the coffee smelled burned and she hadn’t pushed the lever on the toaster down.

But the morning sang, cool and damp with dew, and he sat in the center of her garden, chewing. She should run after him, flailing her arms. Mine! Mine!
The rabbit finished a mouthful of parsley, then reached down and cut off another curly leaf. The woman in the window turned away, but he hardly noticed. He had his own breakfast to deal with.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009


This is from my friend's craft business - I went to her house and took pictures of all the different kinds of soap she makes. This one is a rosewater soap.
The water was poured through the ashes, mixed with the lard and stirred. Heat rose from vat along with fumes, ascending toward the rafters of the barn. She had to take care that she didn't breath in those fumes, lest she turn away, coughing, and drop the spoon in the vat. It required constant stirring.
Slowly, the clear liquid turned cloudy, thickening so that each pass with the heavy wooden spoon seemed like rowing upstream of the river. She lifted the spoon, draping a trail in the texture of the liquid's surface. It was almost ready.
Powdered rose petals, oil of lavendar, rubbed sage. She stirred them in, then poured it into molds. Tomorrow, it would be solid enough to cut. But still, it took time to cure. In another moon, the soap could be sold at market. But she'd keep some for herself; you never knew when magic might strike.

Monday, February 16, 2009


Last spring, we went to see the Iris Gardens while they were in bloom, cameras in hand. There were artists, dogs, photographers and kids looking at the amazing variety of irises.

The petals felt like velvet between her fingers, soft and thick, slightly feathered at the edges. Subtle colors painted on the feathers and bright orange in spots toward the center. But the flower held no frangrance.

Thursday, February 12, 2009


On January 19th, this year, we had a snowstorm. It just kept snowing and this is what it looked like.

The snow lay heavy on the branches, bending them down. When one branch dropped it's load and bounced up, it filled with more snow until it bowed again. Some branches broke under the weight, but most merely bent. It seemed as if they realized that the wind would come along and relieve the weight. I may be bowed but I will not break.

Monday, February 9, 2009

The First Post

Several friends of mine have photoblogs and one has a challenge of a photo a day for the month of March.

I'll use this blog, rather than my LJ, for photos. The LJ blog is for writing. I'll post some in February, to test and try it out. And, while I won't be able to post ever day in March, I'll take pictures every day and post as often as I can.