Jean Albus
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We can sense it coming—the end of summer. The leaves in the trees seem poised to turn color. The warblers and songbirds are showing the first signs of restlessness. The bright days are shorter and the nights are becoming darker and cool. There is a growing pagan cast to the woodlands, a feeling that the earth itself is becoming gravid with the promise of autumn.
Part of us welcomes that. The return of soup and stew weather, the long lines of faintly calling geese overhead, the last harvesting from the garden, the lazy descent of leaves falling in dry whispers. But a part of us clings to the last days of summer. We want to press our naked flesh into the still-warm earth, to roll amongst those final few wildflowers and dig our fingers deep into summer and not let go.
The end of summer is coming, the fallow time is ahead. We only have these few weeks left. If we give ourselves willingly and freely to the soil, we might stretch them out a little longer. Please, just a little longer. We’re not ready yet.
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