The softness of the soil entrapped in a milkweed’s grasp. The moments between dog barks, airplanes, and old cars driven by young people insistently down the road. The expansion from seed tray to 4″ pots. The addition of seed trays. The tender trust in Echinacea stems.
There’s so much nutrition in the garden before anything ever touches our tongues.
“Hey honey… is there anything sown in the back left bed because…” Sprint outside.
I didn’t sow any snow peas this year… odd.
They didn’t mind their light blanket so much as their bean neighbors did. A small final harvest, but I marvel at any bean harvest in December.
The volunteer cherry tomato plant weathered the frost, so those will not be the last winter bites of tang.
And skeptical of the forecast, my love harvested the limes. Twenty two in all and when he unwrapped Bill the next day, he was no worse for the wear…including a few incognito limes left hanging.
I do hope the butterflies will return to the lantana. There was a true kaleidoscope of them alight upon the blossoms some days.
And a pepper pick-me-up.
Almost on cue, the garden is packing it in for the summer. The tomato vines are drying up. Some fruit ripens on brown vines. Other fruit dehydrates where it hangs.
With some help and a helper’s chipper, any soil exposed by the dying crops is now mulched by the gift of a fallen limb.
It may be a bit early, but I couldn’t help myself. I have the first of the fall crop transplants sown in plugs in the laundry room.
The outdoor oven (aka the weather) has begun. Perhaps I’ll set aside some corn stalks for Halloween. They’re drying where they stand quite nicely.
Amidst record lows, summer is coming.
I hadn’t seen the stars in untold time.
My screen painted in peanut butter. I can’t tell. Is that in focus?
“That’s pokey, mama. Don’t touch it. You’ll get hurt.”
Ah, no, bug. It only looks pokey. Touch it. It’s ok.
“That’s a weed, mama?”
No, honey. That’s corn.
“That’s not corn, mama. That’s grass.”
“I planted beads, mama! Patios and I planted lots of beads for you for them to grow.”
“Those aren’t my ‘matoes, mama. My ‘ ‘matoes are at school.”
“I want to take pictures, mama.”