Late summer is finally the season of dahlias, when those six months of staking and fussing pay off. This is our new "Spartacus Burgundy Gold" seen from the bedroom window. My only complaint is the blooms seem a bit skimpy on the gold flecks, not quite as advertised on eBay, but still a spectacular looking thing. That plush burgundy color is fit for a king. Or queen.
My neighbor Wendy grows big dahlias, but most people in this neighborhood don't go to the trouble anymore. What a shame. You once saw carefully tended dahlia beds on almost every block, often indicating the residence of an elderly couple with time on their hands.
With each day, we lose several more minutes of daylight. The night are cool, the mornings dark and damp, the sun at midday noticeably weaker. It might finally rain tomorrow. I'll pick the last of the plums and tomatoes this weekend.
To the Light of September
by W.S. Merwin
When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not
and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
shadows across the cracked ground
but they all know
that you have come
the seed heads of the sage
the whispering birds
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later
you
who fly with them
you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with blue plums
that have fallen through the night
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