Spring Green

IMG_9642Our waterfall dressed in Spring Green. Isn’t she lovely?

Escaping into Nature is good for us. The sound of falling water tumbling over stones and the color green have been proven stress-reducers. I feel so blessed this view is just steps from my back door. There is no trouble that she can’t soothe or day that she can’t brighten. I invite you to take a drink from her waters!

About Eliza Waters

Gardener, writer, photographer, naturalist
Image | This entry was posted in My Photos and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

37 Responses to Spring Green

  1. Incredibly beautiful. Looks like a postcard. You chose well:)

  2. I love running water! The sound just fills you with peace and well-being.

  3. AmyRose says:

    Oh, Eliza, this is just gorgeous and so refreshing. Thank you! Love, Amy

  4. Sophie says:

    beautiful! i feel calm just looking at it! xx

  5. Robbie says:

    truly amazing +thank you for sharing your beauty:-) just steps away that would be heaven, right?

  6. Jewels says:

    Absolutely gorgeous!

  7. The waterfall is beautiful! Actually, the green dress matches her eyes. That is heaven on earth. You are so lucky, Eliza… 🙂

  8. mk says:

    Beautiful. I could sit nearby for hours. I can practically hear it.

  9. Eliza Waters says:

    You are welcome to any time!

  10. dorannrule says:

    Wow – this looks to be a wonderful place to sit and look and listen. Don’t you love the sound of the water cascading? A lovely post Eliza and a delightful photo.

  11. ladyfi says:

    Nature is a sanctuary and a healer! Lovely shots.

  12. What a jewel to have out back, Eliza. It’s wonderful. 🙂

  13. twoscamps says:

    Eliza, hope you don’t mind this.. But this post immediately brings to mind this! Thanks!

    Romance Sonambulo
    Federico García Lorca, 1898 – 1936

    (skip to the original poem in Spanish)

    Green, how I want you green.
    Green wind. Green branches.
    The ship out on the sea
    and the horse on the mountain.
    With the shade around her waist
    she dreams on her balcony,
    green flesh, her hair green,
    with eyes of cold silver.
    Green, how I want you green.
    Under the gypsy moon,
    all things are watching her
    and she cannot see them.

    Green, how I want you green.
    Big hoarfrost stars
    come with the fish of shadow
    that opens the road of dawn.
    The fig tree rubs its wind
    with the sandpaper of its branches,
    and the forest, cunning cat,
    bristles its brittle fibers.
    But who will come? And from where?
    She is still on her balcony
    green flesh, her hair green,
    dreaming in the bitter sea.

    –My friend, I want to trade
    my horse for her house,
    my saddle for her mirror,
    my knife for her blanket.
    My friend, I come bleeding
    from the gates of Cabra.
    –If it were possible, my boy,
    I’d help you fix that trade.
    But now I am not I,
    nor is my house now my house.
    –My friend, I want to die
    decently in my bed.
    Of iron, if that’s possible,
    with blankets of fine chambray.
    Don’t you see the wound I have
    from my chest up to my throat?
    –Your white shirt has grown
    thirsty dark brown roses.
    Your blood oozes and flees a
    round the corners of your sash.
    But now I am not I,
    nor is my house now my house.
    –Let me climb up, at least,
    up to the high balconies;
    Let me climb up! Let me,
    up to the green balconies.
    Railings of the moon
    through which the water rumbles.

    Now the two friends climb up,
    up to the high balconies.
    Leaving a trail of blood.
    Leaving a trail of teardrops.
    Tin bell vines
    were trembling on the roofs.
    A thousand crystal tambourines
    struck at the dawn light.

    Green, how I want you green,
    green wind, green branches.
    The two friends climbed up.
    The stiff wind left
    in their mouths, a strange taste
    of bile, of mint, and of basil
    My friend, where is she–tell me–
    where is your bitter girl?
    How many times she waited for you!
    How many times would she wait for you,
    cool face, black hair,
    on this green balcony!
    Over the mouth of the cistern
    the gypsy girl was swinging,
    green flesh, her hair green,
    with eyes of cold silver.
    An icicle of moon
    holds her up above the water.
    The night became intimate
    like a little plaza.
    Drunken “Guardias Civiles”
    were pounding on the door.
    Green, how I want you green.
    Green wind. Green branches.
    The ship out on the sea.
    And the horse on the mountain.

    Verde que te quiero verde.
    Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
    El barco sobre la mar
    y el caballo en la montaña.
    Con la sombra en la cintura
    ella sueña en su baranda,
    verde carne, pelo verde,
    con ojos de fría plata.
    Verde que te quiero verde.
    Bajo la luna gitana,
    las cosas la están mirando
    y ella no puede mirarlas.
    Verde que te quiero verde.
    Grandes estrellas de escarcha
    vienen con el pez de sombra
    que abre el camino del alba.
    La higuera frota su viento
    con la lija de sus ramas,
    y el monte, gato garduño,
    eriza sus pitas agrias.
    ¿Pero quién vendra? ¿Y por dónde…?
    Ella sigue en su baranda,
    Verde came, pelo verde,
    soñando en la mar amarga.
    –Compadre, quiero cambiar
    mi caballo por su casa,
    mi montura por su espejo,
    mi cuchillo per su manta.
    Compadre, vengo sangrando,
    desde los puertos de Cabra.
    –Si yo pudiera, mocito,
    este trato se cerraba.
    Pero yo ya no soy yo,
    ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
    –Compadre, quiero morir
    decentemente en mi cama.
    De acero, si puede ser,
    con las sábanas de holanda.
    ¿No ves la herida que tengo
    desde el pecho a la garganta?
    –Trescientas rosas morenas
    lleva tu pechera blanca.
    Tu sangre rezuma y huele
    alrededor de tu faja.
    Pero yo ya no soy yo,
    ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
    –Dejadme subir al menos
    hasta las altas barandas;
    ¡dejadme subir!, dejadme,
    hasta las verdes barandas.
    Barandales de la luna
    por donde retumba el agua.
    Ya suben los dos compadres
    hacia las altas barandas.
    Dejando un rastro de sangre.
    Dejando un rastro de lágrimas.
    Temblaban en los tejados
    farolillos de hojalata.
    Mil panderos de cristal
    herían la madrugada.
    Verde que te quiero verde,
    verde viento, verdes ramas.
    Los dos compadres subieron.
    El largo viento dejaba
    en la boca un raro gusto
    de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
    ¡Compadre! ¿Donde está, díme?
    ¿Donde está tu niña amarga?
    ¡Cuántas veces te esperó!
    ¡Cuántas veces te esperara,
    cara fresca, negro pelo,
    en esta verde baranda!
    Sobre el rostro del aljibe
    se mecía la gitana.
    Verde carne, pelo verde,
    con ojos de fría plata.
    Un carámbano de luna
    la sostiene sobre el agua.
    La noche se puso íntima
    como una pequeña plaza.
    Guardias civiles borrachos
    en la puerta golpeaban.
    Verde que te qinero verde.
    Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
    El barco sobre la mar.
    Y el caballo en la montaña.

    From The Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca, translated by William Logan. Published by New Directions, 1955. Used with permission.

  14. Wow, you are blessed to be able to bask in this beauty everyday, just stepping outside your house! It’s beautiful! Thank You so much for sharing! Just looking at the photo and reading the words has a healing/soothing effect. ❤

  15. Linda says:

    My favourite colour is green. Absolutely breathtaking and serene!

  16. You make me long for the NE. Such a beautiful part of the country.

  17. Sharon K. says:

    Oh, now I want to come live with you for a while. Get the spare room ready. 😉

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