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| Bottom left - Hosta 'Sun Power' right Hosta 'Whirlwind" and narrow on top Hosta 'Praying Hands' 19 September 2026 |
Every fall
when I want to mate one of my autumn scans I usually end up with Emily
Dickinson’s poem.
Autumn - Emily
Dickinson
The morns
are meeker than they were,
The nuts are
getting brown;
The berry's
cheek is plumper,
The rose is
out of town.
The maple
wears a gayer scarf,
The field a
scarlet gown.
Lest I
should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a
trinket on.
As fall
makes summer succumb, I invariably think of my Rosemary on her knees cutting
back the spent flowers from the garden. That I have to do it on my own, adds to
my fall melancholy. There is that next year and that spring with the promise of
my roses coming into bloom. Suffice now to scan these fall hosta flowers which
to my eyes are lovely and cannot be ignored.
Today
Saturday after listening to Evelyn Lau (will write a blog after this one) and
riding my bicycle it would seem that there is order to world. I will make
myself a large mug of strong tea and feed Niña her treats at 8pm. I will then
open The Heart Does Break – Canadian Writers on Grief and Mourning compiled by
George Bowering and Jean Baird. Not all
that cheery.
