Standing in the garden, early this beautiful morning, there’s no question but that there’s change in the air. We’re enjoying an August the like of which I can’t remember for a good ten years. This is true, sulky, summer holiday August, but it’s the eighth month of the year and the cool, bony fingers of summer’s end reach out to touch you if you venture out early. It’s like a love affair that has run its course. All the longing and anticipation has gone, yet the passion that remains must be greedily devoured before all that is left are the orts and the lees.
I relish the anxious desire of this time of year. The ripeness that leaves juice trickling down our chin. The desperation to find the joy and to prolong the moment. It’s holiday time and I’m ready.