The Lone Sunflower by Haden Railroad
She had a gentle strength about her—weathered by time, but not defined by it. When she saw me with my camera, she asked what kind of pictures I take. “Anything with a story,” I said. That’s when she noticed the sunflower. It stood alone by the railroad, bright and quiet. That flower came first. She pointed toward it, and I asked if she would show me. “Let’s go,” I said. And we walked slowly, together. By the flower, I began to ask her questions—short, thoughtful, not a full interview, just enough to understand what mattered. It was there, beside the sunflower, that she told me about her husband, gone now for fifteen years. I asked how they met. “In Bara,” she said—a fun place, maybe a nightclub, where people went to dance and enjoy life. She remembered him as handsome. Their connection was instant. I asked what they ate, what they shared—something about breakfast, the details a little faded, but the feeling stayed. She told me about their daughter too. I took her photo, and one of her dog, and I stood quietly as the sunflower took the place of the man she once loved—standing tall, sunlit, and rooted in memory. About an hour and a half later, I returned. The flower was gone—snapped, not by weather, but by a careless hand. I searched nearby and found milkweed instead. Its seeds, unlike cottonwood, do not float far—they rise briefly, then fall. There is little time to photograph them. I asked someone for help. The first man was in a hurry—not unkind, just gone too fast to notice. But the second—a kind woman—did not hesitate. It is her thumb and finger holding the seed in the image we made. And behind it, the sunflower, rising like the sun. In that frame, something broken was made whole again—not in body, but in meaning. Because anything worth photographing is anything with a greater story. And this one—I did not carry alone.
Portrait of young lady with infection joy!
A Moment of peace.
Portrait downtown St.Paul
The Promise of Color and Flight
She bent gently toward the zinnias, her smile blooming without asking.
The Monarchs danced nearby—drawn not to flowers alone,
but to the warmth of a woman whose colors echoed the garden.
In her hands: a sweater being woven.
In her presence: joy, quiet, and a pattern we could not see—until love revealed it.
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Here, near Highpoint on Lake Minnetonka, I opened my arms to the wind—and the story began. Before the cottonwood seeds, before the laughter and the loss, there was this: a breath of freedom, a bird taking flight, and the quiet stirring of something sacred. This is where Snowflakes in June began.” — Abdul Wahab Saifee
And where it ends… my path crossed many beautiful souls. They became part of my story—a never-ending story that at last came to rest, not in silence, but in peace.
It begins like Genesis—with breath and light over the water. And it ends like Revelation—with longing fulfilled, stories revealed, and silence transformed into truth.
And beyond even that, the story unfolds into the garden of His presence… into the place where white lilies grow
Two beautiful spirit, they were easy to work with, it happen in presence of love.
A Moment in Time
Let go—not knowing if, or when, we would return again.
I have come to know the ocean as kinder than the wrath of man’s pride,
and the voices that devour all that is sacred.
The ocean, with all its power, does not destroy to boast.
It humbles.
It teaches.
And even after storms and towering waves,
it leaves room for change—for a way back home,
if you still have a family waiting.
This image was not taken by the sea—but beside the quiet western edge of Lake Minnetonka. I’ve seen the ocean before. I’ve touched it, swum in it. I’ve taken photographs in Florida, California, and Hawaii. But on this day, I didn’t need to go far. I let memory return, and with it, the wisdom of all I’ve seen.
I stood among stones—small ones, resting in the water—and saw in them the shape of distant mountain ranges. With my tripod and camera, I framed the scene so the lake could speak with the voice of the sea. A long exposure softened the surface into something eternal. Then a sailboat came—quiet, white, catching the golden light as it passed through the frame. Small in size, but radiant with purpose.
This photograph is not a trick. It is memory made visible.
It is the ocean, speaking through the lake.
It is the heart, speaking through stillness.
It is the gift of presence, when the body cannot travel,
but the soul still remembers the way.
Image Title: Where Her Arms Bloomed with Trust
Caption:
She was a sophisticated lady—confident yet soft, elegant without needing to prove it. I first took the picture quietly, sensing she didn’t mind. And I was right. After a moment, we spoke. There was a man nearby—friend or partner, I couldn't be sure—but he stood respectfully while we talked.
When I asked, “May I use your image online?” she said without hesitation, “Absolutely.”
The man added, “Thank you for asking.”
What followed was not just a conversation but a moment of shared ease. I even read them one of my poems, titled “I Go Where Tall Buildings Stand.” She smiled, truly moved.
What I saw that day was not just a woman holding a dog, but a moment of calm, clarity, and mutual regard—where trust came not from permission, but from presence.
Poem Read Aloud — August 31, 2013
I Go Where Tall Buildings Stand
I go
Where tall buildings stand.
They rose to see
The city light.
They rose to hear,
They rose to feel,
They rose to breathe
The flowers of life
As they pass by—
Hidden from our eyes.
Within the spring of our lives,
They rose to hear
Echo, pause, and go.
We see the same,
We feel the same.
All that we see
Leaves us behind.
All that we feel—
No one could find.
A reflection of a view
From an aged rustic thought,
From an aged, weathered man
Standing on the far edge of town,
From where the city escapes
Further away...
Where we once saw a day of joy,
And it seems
All that we see
Leaves us behind—
Like a mirage.
All within reach,
Yet out of reach.
Within these walls,
I am alone.