It’s definitely end of season. I see the signs everywhere–not just on the calendar. It continues to rain here, as though preparing us to make a decision about building an ark.
I’m at the point where I’d just like to rip things out and clean up, but I do still have tomatoes coming on and the rain has revitalized the green beans, a treat courtesy of hurricane Florence and a generally damp weather pattern.
The thing about ripping out, though, is that the bees and butterflies and birds are so busy in the flowers.
Sometimes there is so much movement among the blossoms that I stop and try to see individual things. And there are a lot of them still collecting pollen.
So I’ll give them extra time.
I have to search through the flowers now for my bouquet. The blossoms are increasingly spotted and don’t last as long. Still, this was coming. All those folks declaring end of summer at Labor Day knew it, but I deny it right up until the fall equinox. Officially, that was yesterday evening.
I’ll savor the last few tomatoes and green beans in the next few weeks, put the garden to bed for the winter in good time, and look for the pleasures of autumn, perhaps among them the Katsura tree at Dumbarton Oaks, whose turning leaves smell of cooked sugar.