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I tore out the carrots today, cramming wet-clay dirt so deep beneath my nails that it hurt. They are small and pudgy. Sweet babies picked a mite too soon but somehow, it seemed like the day to do it.

I picked every single sunflower. All the rudbekia and shasta daisies too. I kissed the pink and purple morninglory that is pulling the garden down day by day. Three cucumbers finished that harvest and I found two of the first bell peppers. They are mine.

I ripped out all the basil for washing and drying a freezing. Pulled up whole plants by the root and stripped them more thoroughly than any grasshopper could. I did the same to the cilantro.

Uncaged tomatoes trail all over the decomposing straw; I brought in several half-ripe jewels. There were others out there, red and top and rotten with bugs on the bottom. That’s what happens when you don’t lift them up as they grow. I knew that when I neglected to do so; I still don’t know why I didn’t care. The corn is turning red; I wonder why that is. The beans that remain are dry pods; I may save them for seed.

But mostly I’m going down later to take off the pottery sign that says, “Welcome to my garden”. I’ll pick up the clay herb signs and pack them up. I may strip down the dry pea plants no longer making sweet pods for snacking. I might not.

It was a sweet garden, a pretty place for a season. It’s tired and weary and overgrown now and somehow, that seems right. It stuns me, but I realize that this year, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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