The coming of fall as summer wanes seems to be a time of reflection.  As a gardener spring is hope. It is the hope that this plant or that one will return after its winter dormancy. Chief Leonard George  told me while I was taking pictures of the Burrard Native Canadian Cemetery in North Van that his people had the belief that if you somehow survived the winter you could hope for another year of life.

As Rosemary and I prepare for our trip to Buenos Aires we live (or at least I do) the confusion of straddling both fall and spring can be in one moment satisfying and in another stressful.

My roses (our) are in their second flush. These are the remontant ones as opposed to our Gallicas that bloom once and say goodbye abruptly. The remontant ones take their time and their farewell is a surprise that takes you back to their first blooms in May/June and how they seem to be almost saying, “We are still here. Here is our proof. But when you come back from the Southern Hemisphere we will be gone. Hope to see you next year.”

Farewell by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Tie the strings to my life, my Lord,

Then I am ready to go!

Just a look at the horses --

Rapid! That will do!

Put me in on the firmest side,

So I shall never fall;

For we must ride to the Judgment,

And it's partly down hill.

But never I mind the bridges,

And never I mind the sea;

Held fast in everlasting race

By my own choice and thee.

Good-by to the life I used to live,

And the world I used to know;

And kiss the hills for me, just once;

Now I am ready to go!