Read by Michael Flamel

There’s an ache that accompanies the days of late Summer. The perennials, having lived their brief moment of glory, lay spent and sheared to ankle height. The sugar maples and aspens, though still largely green here in Peterborough, Ontario, begin to betray their autumnal undergarments—and it won’t be long now before they disrobe completely.

“Ah, Fall, you’re starting to reveal your colors,” I remark, addressing the season as if it were a wise old friend. “But must you always bring such a melancholy tune with you?”

Clouds of yellow goldenrod seem to hum quietly to themselves as the honeybees scramble for September’s ambrosial dregs. Sometimes late at night, we hear Old Man Winter himself whisper through our bedroom window.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Winter,” I chuckle, shaking my head at the frosty breath creeping into the conversation. “Let Fall have its moment in the spotlight.”

We learned in our youth that every good story must contain a crisis. For northern gardeners, this crisis lasts about six months. The shrubs, the plants, the lawn, and every green memory are flattened under an inescapable white apocalypse.

“Ah, Winter, you’re a harsh critic,” I sigh, knowing the cold season is just around the corner. “But even you can’t deny the beauty hidden beneath your icy grip.”

The only hint of life comes from the desperate fingertips of a Russian sage as it reaches out helplessly, like a buried skier. Not having access to a Saint Bernard, I pat the few exposed branches gingerly with a wet mitten. “Help is on the way,” I lie.

For now, we hastily gather the remaining green tomatoes and promise ourselves we’ll get to making green salsa this year. (Does anyone eat green salsa?)

“We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we, Spring?” I wink at the budding promise of the next season, already eager for its arrival.

In the midst of such horticultural angst, sometimes I need to recall that this is a book I have already read and never tire of; a conversation I’ve already had and yet, in its predictability, find a kind of peculiar comfort.

“I suppose you have a point, Summer,” I muse, acknowledging the cycle of seasons as an old friend with whom I share familiar banter.

In those cold Winter months, there is a quiet momentum slowly building even when all is white and quiet.

“Patience, my friend,” I whisper to the frost-covered earth. “Change is inevitable.”

Then suddenly, sometime in late March, the turning point comes and the first moments of reawakening are upon us.

“The moment we’ve been waiting for, Spring,” I exclaim, welcoming the gentle thaw with open arms.

As the Ice King turns to flee, we see his gentle sister step softly from the snow-laden boughs and, with a wave of her wand, banish all frozen memories forever.

“At least until the following November,” I add with a wry smile, acknowledging the cyclical nature of our shared journey through the seasons. ❖

Author Biography: Ben Inglis is a seasoned gardener and humorist based in Peterborough, Ontario. With a keen eye for the quirks of nature and a penchant for storytelling, he weaves together anecdotes and observations to explore the whimsical world of gardening and the ever-changing dance of the seasons.