Why does everything have to be so full at the end of summer? The nasturtium leaves are piled high like lily pads overlapped.
The purple pole beans have pulled down the weather vane. He's buried, I can't even show him to you, the little sawyer. But here is an old picture before the onslaught.
The dill is as high as me.
And poor Phoebe is drowning in basil.
What is there to do but make pesto and take some to Sapphos tomorrow night for pasta, place a nasturtium blossom on each plate for garnish, share the beauty and bounty with my lovely poetry writing friends?
Oh, and I'll freeze some too, pesto that is.
There is a satisfying sadness at the end of summer. I'm trying to write a poem about it, but it's difficult to put into words.
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