Henry David Thoreau sets the tone for my September.
"What means this sense of lateness that so comes over one now, " he asks. "The night of the year is approaching. ... How early in the year it begins to be late!"
So it's that time of year again for me. I am not a friend of closure or of the end of things.
This past summer, I sat in my back yard more often than usual, watching, listening, trying to absorb as much as possible of the remaining days. Well, I did that with the spring's tulips, too, and the daffodils. I spent a lot of time with the crocuses.
I listened more closely to the early morning robins and to the field crickets and the tree frogs that seemed especially loud this year.
I counted day lilies again this summer, then the canna lilies, hungry for their color. I paid attention to falling leaves, especially the river birch leaves that came down in June.
I studied the seed catalogs early, planning more and more flowers to crowd into the spaces that are already overrun with weeds and flowers that I can't take enough care of.
I have filled the lawn with plants, with hostas and raspberries and zinnias and. I have measured the height of my cup plants ten feet ... and the specimin wild lettuce, glad for their giant size. twlve feet nine inches
I could not get enough. And then Henry David
reminds me now late it is. and I am planning to watch more closely.
Maybe I will count leaves again like I did a few years ago. Maybe I will not let go, continue to deny and deny.
This is Bill Felker with Poor Will’s Almanack. I’ll be back again next week with more notes on the seasons.