Flo

It’s Tuesday morning and I am working on cup of tea #2.  The sun is barely peeking up, so the sky is a grey-ish color.  It’s light enough out to be able to see how the leaves have drastically changed color in the last week and are more on the ground than in the trees.

The garden is harvested.  The last part, garlic and potatoes, sitting in a box in the kitchen.  The pumpkins left from the pumpkin party are in the yard, scattered like litter.  They are white, yellow and orange and stacking them together might be a good idea.  Minus their treasures, the pumpkin vines are wilting and it looks like last night might have been our first frost.  The tomato plants continue to give red*yellow*orange tomatoes, however I wander off and quit looking for them.  Isn’t that funny?  At some point, the garden loses its appeal and I’m ready for it to be done, while plans for next year’s garden evolve in my brain.  Looking ahead, I’m missing out on the fact that I can still eat the tomatoes now.  That’s not too unusual and I doubt I’m the only person who misses out on what is right in front of me because I’m looking ahead, past fall (golden, red, brilliant leaves), past winter (hibernation, snow shoes, skiing) to spring when the earth is renewed. 

Excuse me for leaving.  I need to go look for tomatoes to eat with my morning cups of tea.