Tall Clover Farm

By summer’s end, a bramble’s reach knows no boundary.

What my eyes witnessed my brain denied. The shadows were not lengthening; the mosaic of honey locust leaves did not litter the ground or create an artful flotilla in the fountain.  The sun did not rise and hang on the horizon complacent that it had reached its roost for the day.  The shadows did not slide onto the covered porch like dappled lace, revisiting floorboards that had spent the summer in unbroken hue. The bunting that honored the Fourth of July, managed to hang on the feeble, rusty nails through Labor Day, proudly facing the waning days of summer. If I did not remove the red, white and blue, the impatient breezes of September would surely do me the honor.

A week has passed and I admit that summer is indeed over, and the chill and low light of fall can no longer be denied. I have yet to take down the hammock; it remains a pendulum between the locust trees, rocking gently in the breeze, assuring me that this summer ride is just as good in a sweater and dungarees as it is in a tee shirt and shorts.