The blazing heat shimmers, radiating in sweltering waves off the flagstone porch. The lawn that was so lush and green this Spring, now hunches over in brown tinged distress. I would dearly love to sit outside in the back yard swing, but the oppressive temperatures keep me indoors as effectively as any a blizzard might.
What good is Summer if you can't even sit out in your back yard swing to read a book, or gaze at the sky? The sensibilities rebel.
When the vindictive red ball finally sinks below the horizon, and I can see a star or two step out onto the nighttime stage, I venture forth myself and wander among my ravaged flowers, tut-tutting at their shriveled condition.
Poor dears, they have been crisped like croutons in the merciless blast furnace beams that cook them day after day. The Daisies droop, the Potato Vine pouts, the Sunflowers slump and the Hydrangeas. . .those once beautiful blooms. . . I cannot bear to tell you how they suffer.
I move the swing to a more promising spot near the retaining wall and look over at the gone-to-seed Alyssum that grows around the foot of the peach tree. Hmmm. Perhaps if I trimmed them back, and gathered up the fallen over Gladiolus and trim back the Rosemary, I could plant a few fresh marigolds there and place one or two interesting stones in a pleasing arrangement. I might redeem one small space from the devastation that is High Summer this year.
It's a gardener's malady, this hope of resurrection. Though if we didn't have it, only first year gardens would ever be planted. I must be severely afflicted, as this will be my thirty-third attempt.
I wonder if there are any Atheist gardeners? Somehow I don't think so. Because I and my garden have been born again thirty-three times. No Atheist worth his salt could withstand such manifest proof of grace.
Yes. Lemon Marigolds I think. And mayhap an Aster or two to keep them company. Honest purple Asters. A good way to begin again.
What good is Summer if you can't even sit out in your back yard swing to read a book, or gaze at the sky? The sensibilities rebel.
When the vindictive red ball finally sinks below the horizon, and I can see a star or two step out onto the nighttime stage, I venture forth myself and wander among my ravaged flowers, tut-tutting at their shriveled condition.
Poor dears, they have been crisped like croutons in the merciless blast furnace beams that cook them day after day. The Daisies droop, the Potato Vine pouts, the Sunflowers slump and the Hydrangeas. . .those once beautiful blooms. . . I cannot bear to tell you how they suffer.
I move the swing to a more promising spot near the retaining wall and look over at the gone-to-seed Alyssum that grows around the foot of the peach tree. Hmmm. Perhaps if I trimmed them back, and gathered up the fallen over Gladiolus and trim back the Rosemary, I could plant a few fresh marigolds there and place one or two interesting stones in a pleasing arrangement. I might redeem one small space from the devastation that is High Summer this year.
It's a gardener's malady, this hope of resurrection. Though if we didn't have it, only first year gardens would ever be planted. I must be severely afflicted, as this will be my thirty-third attempt.
I wonder if there are any Atheist gardeners? Somehow I don't think so. Because I and my garden have been born again thirty-three times. No Atheist worth his salt could withstand such manifest proof of grace.
Yes. Lemon Marigolds I think. And mayhap an Aster or two to keep them company. Honest purple Asters. A good way to begin again.