IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING

Hundreds of fireflies float in the pale blue shadow of chestnut tree. A quarter moon lights  the sky--a Chinese lantern dangling from blue velvet. Pale green green rose petals fall silently on a gravel path. The sugary smell of honeysuckle suffuses the evening air. The dew is on grass, the owls are in their nests. The creek sings on its way to meet  the river. In the garden, passion flower vines twine around an old wheelbarrow, a stray gooseberry bush sinks its roots in a whiskey barrel. Basil leaves, punctured here and there by persistent insects, glow green in the twilight.
Life is basic in the cottage garden. The cat kills a baby garter snake. The crows mob baby owls. All the poetry of lily buds exploding into starry flowers cannot obscure the violence that takes place amid the cycle of death and renewal that is the very essence of gardening. I plant arugula, beets,  calendula, cleome, cucumbers, dill and  gourds knowing that the deer will devour most of the seedlings.  Yo garden is to hope that something of use will endure.

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