Nothing sings the song of autumn more eloquently than coneflowers withering on their stems. Mid-July I was at a nursery, purchasing a perennial that had passed its season, and I explained to the salesperson: “It’s ok. Spring will come again. It’s almost October now.” The lady looked suspiciously at me. Her garden had not taught her that nature has an ever-renewing—ever-changing beauty about itself. She had not learned that “To everything, there is a season.”
I know that these spent blooms need to be dead-headed, but just for a while more, I am enjoying watching my garden transform itself into fall.
Not more than two months ago, this same area was verdant and these same flowers were thriving.
But two months before that, the coneflowers were still buried in the ground, but nothing could have thrilled me more then than the daffodils that had popped and were welcoming spring.
“Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; Maud
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the rose is blown.
For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky.” – Tennyson
Jacki Kellum Garden Gate in New Jersey – in July
“When I walk through that gate…that’s my escape.” – Maria Sharapova
Jacki Kellum Garden in New Jersey – in July
Jacki Kellum Garden in New Jersey – in August
Jacki Kellum Garden in New Jersey – in late September
Jacki Kellum New Jersey Garden Gate in Winter
I have learned to love my garden during all seasons–even during the winter, which I feel is a time of rest–a time for restoration. Even during winter, I know that spring will come again, but even during winter, I celebrate–I celebrate what is.
“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”― Edith Sitwell