The rabbit patch in August, is not as tidy as it was in July. Grass grows unhindered where it ought not to-and the garden is almost abandoned. Vegetables are in the pantry now or packaged up in the freezer. There are no sightings of bunnies in the evenings and the nests of the summer birds are filling up with leaves. The songs of the night are hushed-and last night, I smelled the corn drying in the heavy air.
If summer was a book, August would be the last chapter-the one read hurriedly, the conclusion of all that happened before it-But August has a story, all its’ own and it is a story worth telling. There is too much to do and see in August, than to just spend it waiting for pumpkins. There are the morning glory flowers, after all. They are a cheerful lot-especially if they are the blue variety. Many consider them as lowly as violets, but I love violets too. When the yellow butterflies of August flutter around a morning glory vine, it is an affair to notice. Morning glory, true to its’ name, makes a “big production” of the morning time and it is over by noon. The butterfly knows this and heeds the morning light as an invitation to attend,with great haste. The other flowers in the rabbit patch do not impose such consequences-and the butterfly knows this too.
The “Quiet Garden” in August, is going slowly about its’ business these days. New roses are more seldom now and there are barely enough of them to fill a vase these days, yet the serenity remains. The “Quiet Garden” is as steadfast as a sister.
The flowers in the rabbit patch bear certain colors at certain times. Now , the landscape is shades of purple, yellow and blue. The lantana sums it all up with its’ clusters of little flowers that are delightful combinations of these colors of August.
I went out last night, in to the heavy air of late summer. It was a still and moonless night. I smelled the corn drying in the fields . Just before the harvest, you can do so but only if the air hangs thick. The thought “dawned upon me” that I spend a good deal of time, in August, thinking about September. I so love the time when chrysanthemums and pumpkins are scattered over the rabbit patch. I love the world when you need a sweater in the morning and a light blanket at night. The next thing I know, I am thinking of the first soup I will make and the first fire Kyle will build in the wood heater -and then I am well on the way to Thanksgiving and lighting candles.
I must remember that August has a story to tell all its’ own. While the roses rest, sapphire blossoms are growing on vines. Evening comes a little quicker than it did in July, its’ heavy air filled with a soft melody and carrying the smell of corn in a field a mile away, ready for harvesting. Butterflies are on the wing like a silent commotion and make me remember that there is more to August, than just waiting for pumpkins.