Beginning of the End

The early morning of the first frost is always so breathtaking.

The entire garden --world, it seems-- completely still.  Frozen, as it were, in time.  Everything is held just as it was before the sun set.  Still.  Preserved.  Mummified.  Like maybe my garden could just remain in a fixed peacefulness all winter, unmoving in static lifelessness.

But that beautiful, crystalline tranquility is only temporary and hides lurking violence.

As the sun's rays stretch over the horizon and reach out, sweeping over the last remnants of summer, tender herb must bend it's knee and crumble into limp, brown desolation.  Only decay can follow and the impermanence of earthly life is keenly felt.

But what a delight to breath that cold frost just before the sun is bright, gaze on frosty splendor, stuff chilled hands in pockets...

...and bid summer goodbye.