By Karina Borowicz
The whiskey stink of rot has settled
in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises
when I touch the dying tomato plants.
Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms
flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots
and toss them in the compost.
It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready
to let go of summer so easily. To destroy
what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months.
Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.
My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village
as they pulled the flax. Songs so old
and so tied to the season that the very sound
seemed to turn the weather.
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The Washington Post's food section article "Fall isn't just about pumpkin spice" quoted this poem this week.
My Wednesday was chaotic and some upsetting stuff happened but it was less crappy than Tuesday, at least superficially. Maddy (who was having a hard day since it was the anniversary of her mother's death) had plans with Alice, but Alice had a bunch of family obligations come up and Maddy had to move the time of her hair appointment, so although I had expected to see both of them, I actually saw little even of Maddy except in the car. So I got a reasonable number of chores done and I visited with Rose, who came to see the cats.
We watched the Supergirl we missed (love the Supercorp but I'm already sick of the overwritten mom-and-daughter stuff) before Designated Survivor, which was my favorite of the season so far. Here are some more pics from the Battery, the southern tip of Manhattan, including views of the Statue of Liberty and the ferries and ships that sail around her, the Immigrants monument, the exterior of Fort Clinton which was the first U.S. immigration center, the Navy memorial, and some of Wall Street's buildings:
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