Blue

This bowl of freshly harvested blueberries will be the last of the season. I polish them off with a pang of sadness as the pregnancy of late summer comes to a close. Though I get a little bummed watching another season come to pass, this is a time to recognize abundance.

Apple trees are raining their ripe fruit on fading grasses, persimmons are begining to blush, paw paws generously offer their tropical-like flesh to mountain passers-by, and concord grapes have never tasted so sweet, bursting from their sour skins with nothing more than a whisper of encouragement. Oh, and then there are the pears, their antiqued skins barely holding back ample juice suspended in supple flesh. It is the grand finale before the end of the show.

In the blink of an eye, the unharvested gifts will be teaming with winged insects, looking for a good drunk in the warmth of late afternoon sun. Then the worms, ants, and potato bugs will take their turn, leaving sweet smelling decay to season the ground for the next year of growth.

Breaking bread this time of year becomes a meditation on the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. As sweet as it tastes, it always makes me feel a little blue. There is something special about pleasures that are made all the more so simply because they are fleeting.