Glorious Summer

Sunflower leaves, as they rustle in the breeze, sound like commuters in raincoats walking to work.

I am an ungainly peasant, bent over, yanking out roots of life’s green impulse. Even as the weeds go limp they send out the freshest breath. I apologize to them for my human-centric approach. I may be impressed by morning glory’s sneaky charm, but climbing up tomato stems and smothering beans is not allowed.

Strawberries keep trespassing where peppers and eggplants grow. Sunchokes stomp into the potato bed. Dill sprouts everywhere. The humidity is thick as oatmeal but I am grateful for all of it.  The harvest, heavier every day, reminds me how the weight of minutes lived also tips the scales toward the farther side.

I straighten up, making a little oooof noise as I do, and wave to the remaining weeds. “You, my friends, will live another day.”

Canning season has arrived. The kitchen holds two big bowls of ripe tomatoes waiting to be transformed into salsa.

Staggered planting of beans keep us from being overwhelmed (so far) by dozens of plants bearing at once.

Paper and straw laid down in the center of our giant sunchoke patch form a lovely Secret Place for small people.

Our bottle tree garden is easy to maintain because plantings are spaced far enough apart for us to mow between rows.

Even the cauldron plantings at the front of the house have refused to stop blooming.