The Season of Last Things

This is the season of last things, and how poignant they are in their shapes and vibrant tints, in every fiber of their joyous and unfettered being.

Hardy roses in the garden sport the last buds of the season, and the last tomatoes are ripening in a pool of sunlight on the old oak table in the dining room. The last wild grapes of the season dangle in village hedgerows, soon to be picked by frugal villagers and turned into jelly and wine. Scarlet Virginia creepers wrap old wooden fences in the village, and the last crimson berries sway on our hawthorn, most of them already carried off by squirrels. Leaves flutter through the air like birds, coming to rest on veranda railings and the chilly dark earth below in the garden.

I love autumn, but this season always takes some getting used to, and I am working on it again this time around. There have been many farewells to departing (or hibernating) wild kin during the last few weeks, and I have tried to remember to say thanks to the myriad entities who enriched our lives this year and are now passing away.

Bees, bumbles, dragonflies and cicadas, veggies, roses and berries - wherever their dancing particles alight in their journey, and whatever they come to be the next time around, may they all be well and happy.