One of the things I'm giving myself permission NOT to do in these last days of summer is overly tend my garden. It's a nice change of pace. I'm not *actually* ready for snow as the poem might imply, but I know it's coming...
One of the things I'm giving myself permission NOT to do in these last days of summer is overly tend my garden. It's a nice change of pace. I'm not *actually* ready for snow as the poem might imply, but I know it's coming...
I love this Rebekah! I am sharing with my friends who are also Northern New England gardeners! You can the seasons shifting here, and for us the tomatoes 🍅 just have not ripened normally! Thank you for this splendid permission poem for perfect and imperfect gardeners!
One of the things I'm giving myself permission NOT to do in these last days of summer is overly tend my garden. It's a nice change of pace. I'm not *actually* ready for snow as the poem might imply, but I know it's coming...
.
At this point it’s okay.
You can let the tomatoes
slouch into each other
like the end of the party.
.
You can stop tending bar,
let the raspberries crash on the floor
let the peas expire in their drinks.
.
The cucumbers are telling you to
walk on, their gnarled hands
shielding snifters filled half a dozen times,
now theirs to finish – let them.
.
So you poured too late
for the fall greens, who are
just now getting tuned up.
Rest easy, and throw open the door.
.
Let in the snow:
let it smart every face,
let it soften the inevitability
of tomorrow.
I love the images of raspberries crashed on the floor and peas expiring in their drinks! This is such fun!
"let it soften the inevitability of tomorrow" !!! Yes!
I love this Rebekah! I am sharing with my friends who are also Northern New England gardeners! You can the seasons shifting here, and for us the tomatoes 🍅 just have not ripened normally! Thank you for this splendid permission poem for perfect and imperfect gardeners!