All summer I’ve been watering by hand, swinging the garden hose like a censer. I sowed late this year, but a riot of zinnias in the front bed has overgrown the basil which stretches, looking for sun. I should make pesto with it before it gives up entirely. The zinnias’ main competition is a lovely flowering perennial that’s gone to seed. I can’t remember its name, nor the name of the neighbor who gave it to me, but the hummingbirds and butterflies love it. I can’t even identify the lovely color of its trumpet blossoms – something between coral and fuschia.
In the garden on the side of the house, one bed lies fallow, waiting for cooler weather to plant lettuce. The jungle of blackberry threatens to block the gate, its vines arching like fireworks, some heavy with ripening fruit. Volunteer cosmos gain inches every week, overshadowing Arden’s rose and the gladiolus that finally decided to bloom. I water, having drained the rain barrels yesterday, wondering if today my diligence will somehow cause the rains to come again, my silent plea to the skies. The rows of flowers bob and nod, bob and nod, as if in prayer.
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