If I had to choose just one symbol of summertime, it would be our Rose of Sharon bushes, which burst forth in a festive show of pink blossoms around mid-July and keep up their boisterous celebration until the first chills of September.
They are gorgeous, each and every blossom. They keep me busy behind the camera. It's impossible for me to go out the front door and not be beckoned towards them. They're intoxicating, and the bees agree.
The blossoms are havens for little creatures, gathering places to meet in secret, between the pretty petals.
It's in the very last days of summertime that these Rose of Sharon bushes surround us as if to say, "Surrender!" They climb up our window panes to peek inside, climbing so high that we think they'll reach right up to the tops of the windows, on their way to the rooftop.
"To every thing there is a season...
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted..."
-- Ecclesiastes 3, King James Version
And so it goes: The Rose of Sharon begins to fade. The vibrant and voluptuous pink blossoms turn to a soft purple; they wither and fall, taking their last curtain call.
Even in their withering, there's a delicate beauty.
Usually, just as this slow descent begins, a gardener comes 'round to trim down the bushes with a noisy electric hedge-trimmer.
This year, I couldn't bear to think of that harsh sound of shearing, piercing the peacefulness of these final afternoons of summer.
So I lugged out our ladder and began to clip the last of the fading blooms myself, quietly snipping with garden shears, amassing a pile for the composter.
My daughter gathered up the still-vibrant stems and carried them inside, like fragile dolls.
I told her she could arrange her own bouquets around the house. She was thrilled at the prospect and set right to work.
She took the task very seriously. I recognized in her my own determination to get the details right, to create a pretty picture, something to hold onto.
And through it all, my camera recorded these final moments of summer, knowing all too well they wouldn't last.
Summer went much too fast, didn't it? It seems we say it every year.
Perhaps because it's always true.
"Sweet Summer looks over her shoulder,
And whispers once more her farewells--"
-- Mary T. Lathrap (1838-1895)
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