Monday, September 20, 2010

Letting go

Today and tomorrow. That's it. That's all that's left of summer. The panicky feeling I get come August has given way to a sad resignation. But still...

The air is so warm. The trees are so green. The sky is so, so blue. The bees and other bugs are going wild in these waning days. As I type, I am observing a mad pack of stinkbugs that has somehow infiltrated one of the screens in my kitchen. (Luckily - for me - the window is closed. For them, eh, not so much.) They have spent the last few hours crawling briskly up and down the screen, or left and right. They have such purpose, even as they collide with each other and tumble down into the window sill. I can only imagine their desperation. "We only have a couple days left, and it's supposed to get into the 40's tonight, guys! Hurry up!" "Yeah, but where are we going?" "I don't know!"

But the soft, drowsy air counters their urgency. The wind chime still clangs in soothing tones as it swings above the vegetable garden. The garden still bursts with produce in the bright sunlight. I stare with tired eyes at the latest batch of tomatoes on my counter. JBL insists the roasted tomato sauce I've been producing by the gallon is the only one worth repeating, but really? Do we need still more batches in the freezer? There are no fewer than 7 containers down there already. Well, at least I have an excuse for more grilled pizza this week...

The breeze gently pushes at the umbrella on the deck. It lifts the grand boughs of the poplars, oaks and sassafras at the bottom of the hill. Wait - what's that? Yellow leaves on the poplars, mixed in with the green. Look away! I want this glorious, lush, warm September to last for months. The breeze calls me out to play. But the cawing of crows and relentless screeching of crickets tells me that summer is done. Soon I will revel in the cooking of pumpkins and apples, the decorating of home for the new season, the first cozy fire in the fireplace.

For now, though, I will gaze longingly at summer departing. It is always painful to let it go.

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