In New England, is there a time more bittersweet than late August or early September? Summer is not quite gone, and fall hasn’t really arrived. Often, the days are warm, but the nights are cool. The gardens are producing abundantly, and there is a glorious outburst of tomatoes, potatoes, squash, and corn. Dinner still revolves around fresh vegetables, and how sorry I will be when that is over. I love soup, but nothing can take the place of those succulent vegetables, picked just hours before they are eaten.
The humming birds are still here, but I know they will be gone in the next week or so. I am always amazed to think about how these ethereal creatures can migrate so far. Such strength, despite its diminutive size.
My gardens always look their best in July and are more than a little ragged this time of year. But, the coleus look fine, and they will for another month or so, until the frost nips them. And the orange cat always looks fine as he stretches out by the coleus.
September. A time of endings and beginnings. Beautiful but a little sad.