Calendula, such a pretty word, such a marvelous little flower, still blossoming beneath the frost-killed sunflowers in my garden.
Late Sunday afternoon finds me piling fallen maple leaves around these beauties in my garden, tucking in the soil for a winter’s hibernation. There’s celery, yet, too, among the Brussels sprouts. As I work, I snip off celery leaves, dusting off sandy soil on the hem of my shorts. The leaves are slightly grainy in my teeth, but when push comes to shove (as life inevitably goes), I’d rather have tried my teeth on a little grit than none at all.
Here’s what happens in New England’s October: the shadows creep in before the day has finished. We all know these shadows are edged with cold, with the intimation of winter and wind, of snow and more snow, and the always surprising dazzlement of winter’s glistening beauty. I bake an apple crisp, listen to election debates on public radio, comb my cat. October.
At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth…— Rilke
2 thoughts on “A few garden words…”
Appreciate the Rilke reference….I’m just finishing “The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge” and recommend it to all readers. A little like Swann’s Way and a little like The Book of Disquiet.
That Rilke book brings back memories! I read that a very long time ago in high school. Thanks for reminding me about this.