I drove out a little earlier on Saturday, and I was glad I did. The farmer’s market isn’t supposed to open until 8:30, but at 8:05, people had already lined up for Peggy’s flowers – buckets of lisianthus, sunflowers, viburnum, rudbeckia, snapdragons and even a few stems of sweet peas. Then Ann indulged me with every flower I could cut from her garden – phlox and mondarda and tiger lily – and I cooled off in the kitchen after, with talk about books and her visit from artist, Della Wells. (We are both Big Fan Girls.) I’m pretty sure I dreamed about lisianthus Saturday night, while they revived with long drinks of water in the dark, sweeping their petticoats up and up like belles at the Folies Bergere. Or maybe it was their dream. I can’t ever be sure who has the dream first – the flowers or me.
It’s already August and my friend pointed out the morning light is changing, almost imperceptibly. It hesitates just a few more moments, catching you awake while still in its golden phase – somehow a little poignant and still. Summer has turned its corner, and weight of the leaves and fruit She grew can move in only one direction now.