Closing Out

A strong blast of wind clawed away the last leaf from the buckeye tree and sent it scratching along our front drive. The last of our bluebirds gathered by twos and threes before stitching off and dissolving against the nomadic clouds.

Though the Mayday and linden remain clutching their leaves jealously, this marks the end of our far-north growing season.

We’re closing out.

At the flower beds, we’ve shaken free and gathered seeds from both the annuals and perennials—some of those as small and shiny as new minnows. We’ve cleaved the dry stalks of the dead things at the base.

In our modest vegetable garden, we’ve unbraided the tomatoes from the supporting wire cages and uprooted the plants entirely. Both the green and blushing fruits have been appropriately gathered. We’ve harvested the last three kohlrabi.

Come now the raw wind driving frost into the earth itself. Bring us the sweeps of snow. We’ll piece together jigsaw puzzles indoors for the months of long darkness. And next year, when the days are long again, we’ll begin anew with seeds sown in fistfuls of soft soil, with lush green starts basking in the ever-warm light of our sunroom.

—Mitchell Hegman