There’s a freshness and tranquility in the late summer garden that extends into early autumn.
The colours are more muted now, but no less impactful.
Green leaves are greener, the pinks of sedum and blues of caryopteris can be seen more clearly.
Even the trees are slow to turn orange and red this year, as if ceding the moment to the softness of this season.
Many tomatoes are still green on the vine.
So this is how the summer ends:
Not with a bang, but a flower. A flower and some fruit…
… and a branch of colour, peeking out to signal that autumn is on its way.
I wish I were the kind of person who totally absorbs herself in the great now of it all, blocking all thought of the passage of the season.
But you may remember: I failed Mindfulness & Meditation 101.
As with the great times with loved ones, I’m greedy to want this moment to last.
And when autumn blazes in with its glorious colours, I’ll find myself wanting to fix that in stasis too. For just a few more weeks.
It’s all a wan thought, a vain attempt, at holding off winter, you know. We are a winter country but I’m not a winter person.
Note to blogger friend, September 9, 2019
“Yes, Laurie, there is a bittersweetness in the air, a time when we lose one thing and gain another, and even the flowers that bloom now are a reminder of the end of the flowering season.”
Note to my journal:
“I’ve long thought that gardening is a form of art. The soil is our canvas; we paint with flowers, shrubs and trees — always paying respect to Mother Nature. So let us add gardening to the canon of visual and natural arts, and recognize that we are, perhaps, the most fortunate of artists.”
Cynthia Reyes 