9.14.14

There is a pinkish hue to the sky, as I wander about in the descending twilight, bringing in houseplants in preparation for the 40° night, to ease their transition.

And this is the beginning of saying goodbye.
There has been gentle rain misting all afternoon long, the mist that will only be growing, as we approach winter. 

I sit outside beneath the great Oak and the other aged trees, and listen to the thousand small sounds of the rain falling upon each leaf of the entire forest, surrounding me. 

I hear the faint sound of the rushing waters of the the brook far on the other side of the conservation field and hill, deep in an age old ravine, as the waters cone together from the days rain, fallen quietly upon the whole mountain range, only to slowly gather together in the traditional places, following the same paths from thousands of years ago, building up in the streams farther down hill and down stream, to race, then, to fill the outwaters to brimming, and always spill into the powerful, plunging Connecticut River. 

I approach the plum and cherry tomato plants, so tall and beautiful, leaves for the most part dead now, the plants burdened with their heavy ripened fruits.

I reach out and pluck the last intact cherry tomatoes, popping them in my mouth, as they burst with their sweetest flavor. I am remembering the very first ones to appear , early this summer, and my delight, after a long winter of no garden fresh miniscule tomatoes.

Now I reach out my hand and pick one or two plum tomatoes , beautifully formed, brightest red! I pluck off the stem , and bite through them. Their meaty succulent flavor flooding my senses, as I watch a cloud of mist form in the lower field, and then begin to move its way up toward me.

I walk over to the scarlet runner beans, who grew ravenously across the perilously put together garden arch, and finally one side became so heavy, the vines and flowers and developing their pods, that it collapsed upon itself. 

To reveal one pumpkin behind it, from a plant I discovered in the compost, carefully gathered up, and stuck in the garden, wondering what it would become. Beautiful small green round creature.

I am looking at the torch flowers, which really resemble a weed, but I had this feeling there were enough of them in certain places that they were one of the things I grew from seed. And they were. Johnny's Selected Seeds had assured me they would grow to be six or 7 feet tall, with these large brilliant orange blossoms, in late fall. 

And they were true to their word, they were. These lovely creatures now emerging, they tower over all else, as the elecampane begins to fold in upon itself, the flowers now done, enormous leaves vibrant, but still, waning. Because , you know? All living things here are waning.
I move up close to the rosebushes, the pink one filled with blossoms, despite my lack of attention to Japanese beetles this year. Just exquisitely formed flowers and buds. 

And right next to it? The very last of 6 foot Phlox. I had no idea Phlox grew so tall and so wide, when it aged.

Tonight, there are all the small bees of all kinds, hanging on, beneath all of the plants, shielding themselves from the rain and the wet.
The perfusion Zinneas, which just for fun , weeks of covered just-so temperature and humidity? Oh my God. A foot and a high tall, a foot and a half wide, just mounds of remarkable yellow blossoms. Along with everything else.

The Beebalm in it's final stages, and I will leave them all up all winter long, because I am the kind of gardener who gardens for birds and creatures and butterflies and hummingbirds and our vast array of insects. And birds eat the seeds all winter long. So I know it benefits plants to cut them and not let them make seeds, so that the nourishment instead goes into the plant itself. 

But they seem just fine, and, the finches and every other kind of bird , eats every single seed all winter long.

I'm about to dig up the rosemary, because it certainly will not like a cold night, all wet. Kind of like a dog or human. And it's roots have really pervaded a large area. As I brush against it, estimating how far out to put the shovel, the aroma of the rich essential oils fills the air with its pungent aroma. 

Not that I've ever been successful at keeping one happy throughout the winter, for they like a lot of light, and not too much heat.
And in a very unique, Pippy Longstocking home - very long , slender, and five levels, the light and the heat always seem to go together, unfortunately for the ones who love the cool.
  

And after my husband's two tromps to Italy this year, he came back yearning for geraniums. Large ones. Glorious Mediterranean-style. So I did buy him three. My family has always had geraniums and wintered over , but I haven't for a few years.

And it's hard to believe, because here, sitting on the bench, as the day comes to a close, and the darkness descends, it's really quite difficult to actually believe that this is fall. I still have my flip-flops on; there actually are mosquitoes,
But like all of us these days, I did look at the weather app on my phone, and I saw the progressive lowering of the temperature, hour after hour into the night.

So odd to pair that up, as a 62-year-old, with a Sense of Place. With connectedness to the cycles of the seasons. And slowly learning the season of life that I am in, slowly moving through.

I imagine this year's you gone - some coyotes and bears and deer, their young creatures approaching the changes with wonder, watching their parents carefully. All things in preparation, though it still looks the same to the naked eye.

Always, every process in existence, are all like the Fibonacci sequence : sharing the same song; with the very same age old refrains.