On my weekly trip to the grocery, my heart was lifted by the sight of swathes of bright goldenrod and purple ironweed, filling a bottom by the river with the intimation of coming autumn.
Another intimation then came to me: this bottom has always been used for pasturing fat Black Angus steers. And when they're not there, the proprietor has kept it mowed with his tractor.
Not this year. As I recall, the proprietor lives elsewhere and is an elderly man--perhaps this is one of those bitter-sweet September songs of coming to the end of things.
Time of year; time of life . . .
Like a garden I pass on my way: meticulously maintained until this year when its size was much reduced. Now the weeds are taking it, though some brave zinnias persist.
Though I said goodbye to my own garden a few years ago, I'm sad to see others succumbing.
But I can still enjoy the goldenrod and ironweed. And the zinnias.
