Submitted by Kate Brencher, Higganum
The soft pink crocus and yellow daffodils of spring brightened into the vibrant colors of summer. Your dinner table did not go a day without the lively cluster of blossoms sitting in a glass jar. This was one of your proudest moments, from the seed, to the seedling, the buds, and now the beauty, all while under your care. As the season changed again, the red chrysanthemums seem deeper and the varieties of zinnia uncompromised. The hydrangeas dried themselves in place and muted the vibrancies they once provided. The days are growing shorter. The garden has provided you with so much, a deep warmth felt in your soul as the colors catch your eye outside your window, pockets of joy and the ability to share that joy with the ones around you. But, most of all, the garden has furnished optimism, something so hard to comprehend during those dark achromatic, lifeless days of late winter.
Winter will come, you are sure of it. Sometimes you can try to avoid it like a warbler migrating south or delay it by pushing back your mums back in the ground that the frost has heaved up. But… winter will come. You’ve learned to not let it catch you off guard, like the colder than usual September night putting an early frost on the ground. Although, despite adequate preparations, it is not always avoidable.
As the morning becomes more brisk and raw, you surrender and can feel in the aching that a rest is essential. You will walk out and see the contrast of the white jagged edges of frost blanketed over the petal of the last of your garden bed.
Winter is essential, it will allow you the necessary recess to reset, plan, and envision the next growing season. Although, sometimes winter is so arctic and prolonged that it seems unfathomable that spring ever will come. That you will ever be able to enjoy your once tubers that now fill your space with dahlias or let a breeze bring over the fragrance of lilacs while you work the soil. But… spring will come.
Eagerness may get the best of you as you take in the warmth of the sun against your face on a cold day. Your enthusiasm may quickly recoil as you find the ground is still hard and unworkable. You’re not ready, the ground isn’t ready. You’ve become disheartened by the extended hibernation. Soon enough though, the long slender stems of the reliable daffodil will appear through the snow-covered ground and blends of purple and gold-crusted irises will resuscitate your optimism. Spring has come.
Photo by Kate Brencher.
