Writing My Way Back Home–A Gardener’s Tale

A moment ago, the sun shone brightly—but now it’s fading away to a pale yellow glow against my neighbor’s house.

The sky remains a light blue—clear and clean.

The winds gently move the remaining leaves on the red maple right outside my window while a mourning dove hunkers down on a branch, waiting for what?

The fall leaves are past their prime—but still put on a warm glow in the late afternoon.

I was fortunate today. I got outside with Hope, the dog, to breathe in the clean air, to take in the ridges with leafless trees and the sloping farmer’s fields green with cover crops for the winter.

My garden is dying, and I’m filled with a sadness that’s hard to describe. Its once vibrancy is now a shadow of itself. The tomatoes stung by frost drop to the ground or hang on for dear life. They’re tasteless and covered in bug bites—they’re not appetizing anymore.

Then I see the feverfew and breathe a sigh of relief that they’re not overtaking the Russian sage and coneflowers that I planted there in the heat of summer.

At the end of the summer, we had a drought. Or, as the weatherman says, an unusually dry period. The feverfew was turning brown and dying. Not being aggressive like they are when there’s ample rain.

And now, in the middle of November, when temperatures have dipped down into the 30s, they’ve managed to bloom, some of them, as proof of life.

But these rascals of the herb world can be invasive and take over my flowerbeds. Yet, the Russan sage and the coneflowers have stood their ground, too and the feverfew has backed off, allowing these humble perennials to have their space.

I know my flowerbeds and vegetable gardens will breathe new life again, Lord willing, next summer. My garden will be there, welcoming me home again.