Flo

Morning tea – the sun eeks its way up and I see the side of the barn brightening with its rays. (I will not declare or analyze what day it is).  The sun is now hitting the neighbor’s pear tree, whose leaves have turned a golden rust color.  I love fall and all its colors, the way this season leads us to winter.  I also feel a sense of unease as I watch the summer flower blossoms bend over, freeze and shrivel when the frosts begin.  Last year, unable to watch, I pulled several summer planters inside for the winter – the house looked like a poorly kept arboretum.

Makena creeps around the deck, checking in around the door, ensuring I’ll let her in if she is too cold and she wanders away again.  I watered the planters on the deck this morning. Their leaves are no longer upright and green and I try desperately to breathe life back into them again.  I want to see the deep purple petunia blossoms, the pink and striped geraniums, the purple fountain grasses that waves in the very slightest of breezes.