September 19

We dodged a frost, but it was close. When I checked the thermometer at 4 this morning it registered 37, and by first light in certain places in town, roof tops had patches of hoar frost, and a few of the lower areas, like the large field midway down Grove (the field that abuts the Leicester water stream) had bits of frosty haze back lit in the tall grass and nested cups of Queen Anne’s Lace.

I’m certain the farm has been monitoring the temps. One precarious dip too low would damage much of the provender, especially the peppers, eggplant and tomatoes. This is always the risky dance they play each fall, wondering if the late transplants of May will dodge the frosts of September.

Today is after all the Harvest Moon, and now that the frost is more than just a “someday,” the farm can hear the ticking of the clock more earnestly. What began in what seems so long ago as promise, and saw itself as growth and then patience, is now resplendent as bounty, but only if time allows. Spring was much of hurry toward maturity, and it seems that now it has become hurry to gather.