August Garden

By Gloria Nixon-John

August 31, 2015

August Garden

My August garden has changed overnight, like a middle-aged woman looking into a mirror, asking, When did that happen, or how did this happen so soon? The cornstalks stand shoulder-to-shoulder, answer in sibilants, and that answer is enough. Shuck the ears to find row upon row of yellow teeth (The Fuller Brush Man’s smile comes to mind--he once offered furniture wax, elixirs, braided rugs to my mother so many years ago). The pole beans, arthritic fingers should have been picked days before, but this August garden forgives, will give me more--squash the color of moon glow, peppers as red as blood, stunted cucumbers like thumbs and sway-headed dill to stuff into jars. In the pumpkin patch a five-pointed star twists itself round, spins into what it knows--big, big, bigger, bigger yet. I take and take and take, lift up, carry off, cut into, put up in the dark, until it is done, gone, and I am left once again to dream of an August garden.

 

Photo "Blue skies, puffy clouds, tall corn stalks" provided by Bryce Mullet, via Flickr.com creative commons license.

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