“Lunch with the crew is full of surprises. I don’t know why we were talking about fake rocks. “They look just like nature”, said Nikki. Then Jennifer noticed her chicken wrap leaking down the front of her pants. Unable to find a napkin, she threw herself onto the ground. “This is how I shall clean my pants!” she proclaimed, squirming on the grass. My crew does not surprise me, right now. The end of gardening is epic, a Greek tragedy. To seek absolution from mayonnaise, would be the least of it, a mere denouement. While there lay Jennifer, I sat upright at the picnic table, eating a 3 day old sandwich. Nikki, I believe, had left most of her lunch at home, accidentally. We shared a crumpled bag of chips. The hills are alive, right now. While we trim gardens towards emptiness, men in camo, pull off on side roads, & disappear into the woods. But we are not the hunted. Not exactly, unless you count the ways in which those who work the land in Vermont have become an endangered species. They will find ways to eliminate our usefulness. However, I see what I see, and the dream is still alive. Coming home across mountain ridges this week, I took a longer way, just to stay inside the moment of peak, declining foliage. The days that begin dimming before we’re ready, tossing dry, orange leaves thru the air, as if to obstruct our path, or at best, slow us down. One or two days, is all we have. When the fallen leaves whisk right, and left, and define all our roadways, as if celebrating the arrival of kings, or a circus. Natural confetti. Maple confetti, mostly. That’s here one day, and gone the next. Gone, in the blink of an eye. Blown into what sticks and trunks are left, into every crevice needing insulation, for winter. For every mouse, rabbit, and weasel, plus, all the rest. The dark coming early, isn’t easy for us, either. The sun isn’t as dependable, for any kind of solace, and kneeling into the garden beds, our pants being wet becomes an issue. And our hands are colder. The intrepid flowers still making color, blow our minds. A pink phlox blossom, a strident monkshood purple, the persistence of a deep burgundy petunia. Of course, the perennial chrysanthemum, will hold out, way longer than all the rest, in peach, or lavender. Fall crocus, yarrow, veronica. Still going. I’m still going. I have many miles to travel, if my dreams are any indication. I have much more of myself incognito there, and stand taller, and fly more true. Tell me, what is that all about?”
Maple Confetti
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