A couple of days ago the Better Half asked if I'd noticed the nibbling done to the pots of New England Asters on the front stoop. I hadn't until she mentioned it. The suspected perp is one Runny Babbit who, much of the time, lives under that self-same stoop and, a few evenings back, startled Franco, the border collie cross rescue dog, as we returned from a constitutional, by bursting out from under the bottom stoop step. We may need to see if the Better Half has a good recipe for rabbit stew.
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| notice the missing blooms on the plants' left
Photo by J. Harrington
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Although asters have become a favorite flower over the past several years, I may have developed some sort of blind spot toward them because, not only had I not noticed the missing blossoms, it was only today at mid-day that I noticed the aster blossoms near where the driveway meets the road. Two years ago I planted a couple of pots of asters there. They didn't seem to have survived the Winter so last year I planted a couple of others. They looked dead all Summer. In fact, a few days ago I would have sworn there were no blossoms to be noticed. Then, today, there's almost a dozen or so pinkish-lavender blooms. I feel blessed. We'll do some weeding around the asters this Autumn and next Spring.
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| where were they hiding all Summer?
Photo by J. Harrington
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September
byHelen Hunt Jackson
The golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.
The gentian’s bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.
The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook.
From dewy lanes at morning
the grapes’ sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather,
And autumn’s best of cheer.
But none of all this beauty
Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret
Which makes September fair.
‘T is a thing which I remember;
To name it thrills me yet:
One day of one September
I never can forget.
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