After the Chrysanthemum

After the chrysanthemum
besides the daikon
there is nothing

-Basho

Although we missed the frost that sparkled on Wednesday morning’s sunrise north of us, the signs of fall are making themselves known all around us. Powdery mildew overtakes the prairie plants and the squash leaves; rain comes with a special chill to it; and leaves, drained of chlorophyll, litter the driveway and stick in the crowns of the parsley plants. Caught between an unusually-late first frost and the impending onset of the Midwestern winter, we work to bring in the fruits of a summers labor, the final yield of the year.

Thursday morning greeted us with ominous, Technicolor red clouds filling the eastern sky, and spilling around to the west, where a rainbow stretched its full arc from one ridge to another. The yellow leaves of silver maples contrast with the bright green of rye and hairy vetch planted in the lower fields, just as the bright orange spot on the bottom of the acorn squash contrasts with the deep green of its skin. Wedges of geese honk their way over the farm on a daily basis, and flocks of blackbirds assemble for the trip south, filling the trees with their chatter, and the sky with scudding clouds of wings. Everywhere, fleeting color and the tension of imminent action abounds – one last hurrah before winter’s bleakness.

In the coming four weeks, we will fill our walk-in cooler with carrots, beets, celeriac, rutabagas, cabbages, Brussels sprouts, and more. We’ll plant the garlic, re-skin the greenhouses and move them, and pull out the plastic that warmed the soil under our peppers and tomatoes. We’ll cover the herbs with insulating fabric and mulches, and seed the remainder of the cover crops. The snow will come, and we’ll have made another trip around the sun.

With dewdrops dripping
I wish somehow I could wash
this perishing world

-Basho