The end of summer is here, a steady slide into autumn, that glorious blast of bright skies and warm days to remind us that the earth is stunningly beautiful. Every kid I know is back at school by now, their backpacks jammed with heavy books and clothes layered on for chilly mornings and shed during hot afternoons. It will be years before they can really see the beauty of this month.
I love this time of year. August, with its naked ladies in full bloom, ripe blackberries hanging just beyond my reach, the first tomatoes of the season, dandelion seeds floating on wispy breezes.
We’ve been watching a caterpillar in the herb bed for two days. It’s beautiful, all green, red, and orange, perched at the end of a parsley sprig. Neither of us has the heart to move it. If this creature needs my parsley to fuel its transition to butterfly I’m willing to leave it alone and hope that, with a bit of luck, we might see what emerges from the cocoon later.
August leaves me grateful and sad and in awe. It’s the month of my sister’s birth, a date I set aside every year to quietly celebrate the 42 years we had with her. I wish the sunshine on her face and the sweet taste of wild blackberry jam in her mouth. I wish long conversations and sharing dreams with her. August was her month, bright and full of ripening harvest. And over far too soon.
When you hear a tale
Of the August moon
Indulge your senses,
Discover one simple dream.