Amy in the Garden

It’s not September until the temperature drops.

Suddenly the world seems to be outlined in sharp pencil: no humidity, no heat, no blurring. Just cool edges, fresh paper, active animals, and heavy fruit.

My garden is still actively producing, and I know that time is not on the side of my plants, the tomatoes especially, that are still setting fruit. Instead of the fullness of days, brown paper will see them through. The weeds seemed to have slowed, not racing to conquer anymore, most of their damage done, it’s as if they’re sitting back and observing their work. They release from the earth easily when I pull, a factor of both our long stretch of dry weather and their advanced age. I hope I go as gracefully when it’s my time. (Although I’d like to think there’s more of the tomato than crabgrass about me.)*

The animals are more active, without the urgency of cold weather. They’re not feeding against the storm, they’re feeding with delight in the abundance. I started filling my bird-feeders again in the early summer, to distract the chipmunks from my vegetable garden, and was stupidly delighted when I remembered that seed = birds as well as rodents. I have been enjoying the air-show every day.

Because I know this particular season is closing, I am appreciating instead of fretting.

Photos to share, of this September:

Thinking they have all the time in the world....

September colors and sounds, fire and hum.

The Cape Gooseberry, whose fruit has brought the vines low. I'm harvesting close to the ground.

And the monarch caterpillar, arching away from summer and into the next season.

* I just realized that my comment above might suggest that I’m content to end my days ripening in a brown paper bag. Not such much. It’s vine for me, I hope, from beginning to end! Husband, take note.

WORDS FROM OTHERS

“The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
“The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze.”

— John Updike, September