The garden feels clean and pure. The air is comfortable and nearly chilly. The grass isn't warm, but the breeze that blankets my toes is warm, like a gentle current of sun-warmed water. Aspen leaves rustle now; they quiver and hum with the wind, blissfully delighting in their thousand-leaf dance and the way that the quieter golden sunshine compliments thier new yellow undertones. The vines are heavy with grapes, the trees are ladden with apples, and the flowering plants are still proud and happy explosions of blooming colors. Rays of sun peek at my face from behind a pine tree, catching the copper of my hair and the sensitivity of my eyes. The sun seems to sparkle on a ripply surface of water in teh sky. A musky scent of mulch and September peace passes by my nose as a cotton puff twirls through the air and the chorus of high leaves turns into a quiet rumble.
It's the pinnacle of a successful garden, and it creates a sense that every piece of it--the trees, flowers, vines, grasses, wood, stones, dogs, people--knows that its part was created. Perfectly.
It's more yellow now, like everything is coated in honey. Everything will go away with winter, but at this moment impermanence is peace. This is life, this is bliss, this is love...
No comments:
Post a Comment