Category Archives: Summer

Garden Amazons

There is fierce triumphant beauty to the plants that bloom in late summer, thriving in the scorching heat, wilting humidity and violent storms. What endurance they have, the brilliant geraniums, the bushy fragrant lavender, the gently bowing crape myrtles in shades of pale pink and white, the trumpet vines draping themselves acrobatically across fences, bursting with orange and yellow flowers, the rose of sharon blooming again and again and again. At their feet, the first dried leaves gather, harbingers of autumn, remains of more delicate comrades who flourished and died in the gentle months of April and May.

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Posted by on September 17, 2010 in Meditations on Nature, Summer



A welcome light rain turns the skies pale gray and sinks gently into deserted lawns and scorched flowerbeds. Dragonflies and goldfinches dart boldly through the garden. A young male cardinal flashes scarlet in the bushes.

In the alley, wild five-foot thistles burst with purple blooms. Crape myrtles bow gracefully under the weight of white and pink blossoms. The fallen flowers carpet the alleyway with rosy hues. In the uncut grass adjoining the sidewalk, startling blue cornflowers have sprung up. A pair of squirrels appears to  be mating, or perhaps only playing, in an empty driveway.

At night, in the smudged charcoal darkness, the chorus of cicadas swells and diminishes. A raccoon shinnies up a drainpipe. Inside a neighboring house, a dog barks, sensing the raccoon. At the top of the hill, lights change rhythmically from red to green but there are no people and no cars at the intersection.

The city sighs in the sweet emptiness.


Posted by on July 10, 2010 in Meditations on Nature, Summer