Season's coda

The crickets are deafening. The seed heads of the blackberry lilies (Bellamcanda) --solidly one-third of their charm—are waving above the garden chairs, and the pineapple sage is in bloom. It’s a sad time of year but a gorgeous one in its own way.

One of the things I most appreciate at summer’s end are the moonflowers (Ipomoea alba), which are doing their darndest to make up for the declining garden. Those magnificent crepe-de-chine blooms that swirl open like dancers’ skirts waft perfume all over the place as they open at the cusp of the evening, attracting daytime pollinator and moth alike, a bridge bloom between day and night. I’ve strategically spaced them around the property – crawling over the rusted garden sink, semi-blanketing the pergola and taking the long-limbed volunteer lemon tomatoes with them, at the south entry to the garden where they struggle manfully to latch the fence closed (I keep unwinding them and repositioning but they are of a stubborn bent.). But the two moonflowers I most appreciate are the knot of heart-shaped leaves and blooms that have twined up a telephone pole that used to hold a purple martin condo in the driveway garden, and the ones in the raspberries I have finally figured out how to protect from both weeding husband and weed-whacking lawn guy.

The driveway moonflowers make the place look welcoming and add another dimension to the Anemone and blowsy-looking perennial Ageratum that are the end-of-season staples there. But the ones in the raspberry patch are my favorites because I can stand very close and watch the different bees clamber into the blooms’ centers. I can observe the way two bees of the same species will share a bloom while the arrival of a new species creates a new dynamic. There are decisions to be made: shall I defend my blooms against the alien newcomer? Allow him to crawl over my back to share the pollen? Turn and face him off? It’s tribal, atavistic, and seems almost political. Watching without having to make a judgment is luxurious.

The vines too have their own agendas and personalities. Some wrap sleek stems over and around and through, picking up a cane to carry it straight into the air while they reach for the rustic overhead trapezoid. Others clutch a berry-laden cane or two to the waist-high clothesline that attempts to keep the canes in bounds. But when I go out with the dogs, wandering and inspecting, it get to visit the little dramas that nature creates.
I’ve all but given up picking –too many fungus-plagued berries thanks to this year’s weather, too little time and energy. And I’ve finished canning and freezing (mostly).
It’s a bittersweet time. The crickets, punctuated by the last few cicadas, are outside my office door singing an end-of-summer song, a coda to the growing season.