Maine Observer: My Maine garden and I are each receiving prepared for winter

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I am not my Maine garden, and but I determine with life in it!

As I arise from my bed, the fog creeps by means of my garden beds about the residence this morning, providing it the appear of a misty Gothic mystery. The tall, when-powerful zinnias are faded red, like dried blood. The black-eyed Susans bend and petals pull back like vanquished soldiers. The purple petunias drop far beneath their hanging baskets and are no longer in a position to open to the sun or catch the morning dew in their mouths. Summer time is gone. The flowers and I are in the autumn of life.

By means of the aging flowers, a chipmunk scampers to stay away from the dog, carrying nuts to his winter storage vault. I, like Chippy, harvest flower seeds, he to consume by means of winter and I to plant subsequent spring. A spider, seeking like the black hat my mother wore to funerals, saunters in between tall stalks of iris. She is not creating a internet nor arranging for new birth. A woolly white caterpillar in complete plume inches along the faded brick walkway and eyes the gray elephant clouds in the sky marching to the water hole.

Will it rain right now? The caterpillar should not get flooded away from these bricks and land in a pool at the base of the driveway. Survival is paramount. She and I are not of the plant planet, but she likes wandering amongst them as do I. She should leave the flowers, make the trip to the tree and climb up. She encloses herself in her internet to survive winter. I should pull inside as nicely.

Flowers and I are a clutter like an English garden overgrowth brought on by sun of summer season forces the flower beds to overspread. Now is the time to reduce back, thin out and transplant. Weeds had been pulled all summer season but they as well develop into much less active now, like I do. In summer season I was awed by the abundant colors and selection, but in autumn, the flowers and I are dull. It is time to reduce back, thin out and transplant my energies indoors.

I move the scarlet geraniums inside and reduce them back. We will go dormant. The annuals in beds and boxes may well give me pink impatiens and yellow mums for a different month. The muted pink sedums are in their glory now, slipping to a cranberry colour as days shorten. Hardy rust, yellow and purple mums are rival queens in the October garden.

Come winter, the hardy tulip, lily and crocus bulbs will sleep far beneath the half-foot of soil and foot of snow, like me beneath my quilts. The daisies and astilbes will survive and fight their way up subsequent year, substantially like I anticipate to resound subsequent summer season.

I am not my garden, and but I am.


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