In the light of a rose there seems to me to be a fair and poetic land. Where color is true soft and bright. A place of peace and yearning.
In the adventure
of
Spring.
As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe
In the light of a rose there seems to me to be a fair and poetic land. Where color is true soft and bright. A place of peace and yearning.
In the adventure
of
Spring.
As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe
When one captures a bit of grace, it is held holy for a moment and given to the world. The world then turns to the Universe as the unique beauty becomes of the All. The Jonquil is as sure a sign of spring as is the Robin, warm days and rain on the ridge. The flower is but fleeting, one day here and one day gone. Rather like a twist of fate and more for each season brings new life, a curious change of light and joy for those who behold the symphony in awe. As ever be well
Are you sure that all of the Saints were in your dreams?
No, I only pray for them. She looked at her hands, shook her head and said.
Thank you for the rose.
As she spoke I took a drink and my thoughts were of the garden for a moment and of all the Saints. The half moon rising above the Painting Studio this first day of November. Then my thoughts turned into the folds of the rose and time spent in the garden this afternoon.
Are you still with me?
Yes, was just thinking about the last roses, fall, stuff like that and all of the Saints.
Are they with you? Or what? She said and,
I don’t know
So much of it is like poetry, grace and a song half sung
Walking is healing. Walking with you and the roses is sweet.
Thank you for the rose.
Thank you.
I took to the garden and the ridge free and alone for a talk with all of the Saints and a prayer on the first day of November. As ever be well
The first rose of this year recently bloomed in my small garden and I had to take camera to the yard in order to share some of these images and words. Am sure some are thinking, “ old Stephen is a bit nuts about his roses and into his cup of gin again”. Fine, for this is true and would not have it any other way because of the joy found and seen in the first rose of spring as she flowers, then graces my eyes with a silent poetry, a visual affirmation that the artist is alive, well, and in tune with nature as much as one may be in the miracle of life in the all. Or something like that as one re creates images that capture moments the painter/poet desires to share.
There one may begin to understand my personal feeling for the first rose of spring, for there seems to be a light within the flower that displays an energy as if the rose gives light as well as takes light.
Though only a simple painter and sometimes bad poet there is a profound beauty in the fold of petals of the first rose of spring. As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe