Rhythm of the present season

On this overcast, Saturday morning, August 1, 2026, leaves July behind. Summer rolls on full speed ahead.

I feed Cuddles and Mitty their breakfast, take a deep breath before the kitchen window, and assess yesterday's work in my backyard gardens along the slate walkway. 

Stone steps descend from the house to the path between gardens supported by boulders on the left and right. 

The arbor covered with Sweet Autumn Clematis on its right side stands midway the slate walkway. 

All summer long I guide Clematis stems from the west side of the arch to fully cover its frame.

Come fall, she'll bloom her tiny, fragrant stars in mass.

I then focus on the condition of the garden to the left. There, yesterday, I deadheaded bleeding hearts, iris, lilies, and a sprawling, miniature pink rose planted in the cleft of boulders.

Again, I marvel at the rose's survival instinct. For she bears buds, will bloom again with a little nourishment from a foliar spray including Neem oil, castile soap, liquid fish, and kelp. 

Indeed, our landscaper knew her business. And I'm forever grateful the price my late husband and I paid for this project still produces lovely foliage, fragrance, and color.

The landscaper's team also planted a handful of miniature evergreens that now tower above blooming astilbe, black-eyed Susan, daisies, Christmas rose, and several gifts from the abundance of fellow gardeners.   

I vow again to someday keep a little notebook with the gift givers' names, the names of their horticultural donations, and dates received.  

Years ago, an invasive pest that remains unidentified dared migrate into my perennial island in the front yard. Then, while I slept, the nuisance crept into the backyard garden I now admire. 

After countless springs, summers, and falls of uprooting the weed, I at last submitted to experimenting with a spray bottle of weedkiller. 

Why not use what my husband left behind in a garage cabinet?

I hope to find the invasive weeds expired in a few days. For I used the same treatment some weeks ago that shriveled up Poison Ivy in the lower garden to the right of the slate patio.

Working downhill, I cultivated the soil where Sweet Autumn Clematis stands proudly. There, I decided five hours in the garden enough and called it a day.

Indeed, the garden on the left provokes a sigh of relief, for I also pruned and weeded lavender plants, weeded and deadheaded other perennials along the path. 

Dear Reader, the dark, weed-free, amended and mulched soil of some thirty years again highlights Echinacea's pink blooms. 

Again, the beauty of summer's trustworthy rhythm breaks a smile on my face. 

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com