true dirt

We’re having a heat wave and are dry as the desert. The garden is parched, pathetic, half-dead. Even the brilliant red of the grape vine has dulled and most of the leaves have been ripped off by scurilous, jagged, arid winds. A cruel autumn for the garden. We wait for rain, and dream of spring.
I’ve collected a small bouquet of remembrance for the glory days of a May garden and the rose resplendant.