Someday In September, I Won’t be so Glum

Someday in September I won’t be so glum.  It hits me around this time every year as everything in the garden is dying.

I look out my kitchen window at the wilted and black stems and the herbs that need cutting before the first frost.  I have cucumbers and tomatoes still, but I can feel the death in the garden.  Yes, it is the same feeling I get around this time every year. Have I mowed the grass for the last time? All I can think of is winter looming.

I cannot enjoy the sunny, blustery September days because I am thinking of the cold that is coming.  And I am wondering when the leaves start falling? Thinking that if it is warm this weekend I should clean up the yard for winter.  I will be glad that I did, come spring.

And every year around this time, I think this is the year that I will plant bulbs.  Some years I have even gone so far as to buy Tulips and Daffodils bulbs then I procrastinate, setting them in the garage for “a while.”  Blubs in Wisconsin have to get in the ground before the ground gets frozen hard, so I have months to ponder it, and the truth known already.

I won’t do it.

I think it is mostly because I haven’t the faith to believe that Spring will come.

But it does.

Oh that I had the faith required today to plant.  To wait.  To believe in spring.

Therefore the Lord waits

to be gracious to you, and therefore

he exalts himself to show mercy to you.

For the Lord is a God of justice;

blessed are all those

who wait for him.

Isaiah 30:18

This is what got me inspired, after having a gloomy wretched day.  I read about hope from Ann Voscamp.  Thank you Ann.

 

 

 

 

why must winter come? (a poem)

why must winter come?

it’s fall and yet i walk about the yard in shorts, constantly aware of the heat.  cool enough.  gorgeous leaves, made of reds, yellows, browns chewed into smaller pieces, set aside for the spring.  the grass is still green and growing, fighting.   for it has something more to show for itself.  as i blow the remaining sticks and other fall debris i wonder if it is tomorrow that will bring the cold?

it’s fall and yet the windows are open, as i sip a cold clausthaler and listen to the neighbors’ rowdy party music, i long hop the fence.  i’m not finished with summer yet.  somehow the heat makes it linger on.  the nights are starry and the moon was bright last night.  with the windows open a perfect sleep comes.  down comforters likely out too soon but feel anticipatory.  as i put the fire pit aside to mow, perhaps the last of the fall, i hope we use it again!

one last fire, outside before the morning dew on the lawn freezes and i wish again for a heated garage.  i blow the leaves out of the garage — again — and again as they seem to fight me. wondering how it got this way, again.  the indiscriminate pile-up of bikes, discarded furniture, forgotten projects, and garage sale finds all manage to keep it something other than what it was supposed to be.

and as i sweep the summer’s storm of activity away i think of winter wishing, wondering, what will it hold?  if summers are for friendship, and water toys, laughter, smoky grills, and cold beer what does winter’s promise hold?  for those of us who hold on tight to the warm weather and outdoor chores, the possibilities and hope that come from growing things.  Somehow, i must allow winter to come.

then i will settle in to short nights and freezing toes in the morning.  pull out the wool sweaters, accepting that summer is fully gone.