The garden is quickly, it seems, going by. Fading into autumn, sunflowers have toppled over in the afternoon wind, bright petals dried. The light is yellow, casting a golden hue that paints, is thick with vibration. This in-between time is magical with color, with fruit hidden in the tangle of summer's growth, with surprise scents and sounds.
Funny how things pile up like clouds up against a mountain range. Remember planting the garden in the spring? The little plants set out look small and lonely, they never could grow and entwine with their neighbors! Ha! Or the seeds sprinkled in carefully prepared beds, pop out of the soil with tiny twin leaves; who can imagine them growing into a vine that winds around and through the garden plot growing big gray winter squashes, even hanging them as huge ornaments in the tomato row?
And the weeds! They too, are beautiful in their tenacity. Perhaps the weeds are the poets and writers? They come up where ever the water touches the soil, root deep, grow fast and bloom, throw seeds all over for next year! I have always loved the weeds; something in their persistence intrigues me. I for one, have never thought of a weed as a bad thing, hence I can claim my own weed-dom, or weedness, like I claim my poet and writer and artist.
Funny what happens when one sits down for a moment and lets the golden evening breeze in the front door!