SARASWOTI’S PHOTOGRAPHY

My nature photographs have been chosen as art covers of poetry anthologies. These images are my own form of quiet poetry, capturing the light and land that also shape my writing.

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https://parklandpoets.com/anthology/

The Landscapes Between

The hospital in Kathmandu gave us an afternoon. The Himalayas in Nepal gave me a temple. With a diagnosis pending for my father, I walked this trail not as a hiker, but as a daughter, sending a prayer from the closest place I knew to home.

The hospital in Kathmandu gave us an afternoon. The Himalayas in Nepal gave me a temple. With a diagnosis pending for my father, I walked this trail not as a hiker, but as a daughter, sending a prayer from the closest place I knew to home.

A mirror of emerald, moss, and peak—Grassi Lakes near Canmore, Alberta. I brought my daughters here on a quiet fall evening, a walk to loosen grief and teach them how land holds our healing.

A mirror of emerald, moss, and peak—Grassi Lakes near Canmore, Alberta. I brought my daughters here on a quiet fall evening, a walk to loosen grief and teach them how land holds our healing.

Rolls of dark cloud filled the sky outside the Parkland County. We sat in the car until nightfall by this narrowing strip of lake, listening to the crickets' chorus rise from the summer-dry grass—a symphony of gathering storm and coming dark.

Rolls of dark cloud filled the sky outside the Parkland County. We sat in the car until nightfall by this narrowing strip of lake, listening to the crickets' chorus rise from the summer-dry grass—a symphony of gathering storm and coming dark.

From the plane, somewhere near Dubai: the deep emerald of the ocean weaving itself into the sand. A border not of separation, but of intricate, endless conversation—land and water stitching a new coast below.

From the plane, somewhere near Dubai: the deep emerald of the ocean weaving itself into the sand. A border not of separation, but of intricate, endless conversation—land and water stitching a new coast below.

Thanksgiving weekend from the Bald Hills: an early, knee-high snow transformed Maligne Lake below. At the peak, the wind whistled over a revealed truth—that every summit only shows you the next layer of mountain waiting.

Thanksgiving weekend from the Bald Hills: an early, knee-high snow transformed Maligne Lake below. At the peak, the wind whistled over a revealed truth—that every summit only shows you the next layer of mountain waiting.

Wind, loose hair, the weight of my camera bag—paused on the Crypt Lake trail before the climb. Here, the conversation wasn’t with people, but with the land itself: a dialogue of belonging written in stone and the promise of the cave ahead.

Wind, loose hair, the weight of my camera bag—paused on the Crypt Lake trail before the climb. Here, the conversation wasn’t with people, but with the land itself: a dialogue of belonging written in stone and the promise of the cave ahead.

Minus thirty in Stony Plain. The winter sun struck a snow pile, and suddenly it was not snow but a mound of glittering grain—a trick of light that made the frozen world feel abundant, edible, strangely warm.

Minus thirty in Stony Plain. The winter sun struck a snow pile, and suddenly it was not snow but a mound of glittering grain—a trick of light that made the frozen world feel abundant, edible, strangely warm.

Outside Kathmandu, roaming my school-day hills. Foraging for Lapsi, talking to villagers, stopping at the hilltop monastery. The mountain wall held guava and orange trees. A landscape where every path lead back to a self I still recognize.

Outside Kathmandu, roaming my school-day hills. Foraging for Lapsi, talking to villagers, stopping at the hilltop monastery. The mountain wall held guava and orange trees. A landscape where every path lead back to a self I still recognize.