Their fragrance warms the chilled night air. From the yellowed cilantro I collect clusters of coriander. Taking scissors and twine, I trim rosemary, mint, and thyme, then bundle them for drying. Next, I thin out unruly strawberries and cover them with a blanket of golden stubble, tucking them in for a long winter’s nap. Their death will not be wasted.īut like the last light before Sabbath’s night, fall is a time for preparation. I cut them and add their foliage to the pile, a mound of growth that will go to compost. In another, I pull up cucumber and broccoli, roots clinging to earth. But like the last light before Sabbath’s night, fall is a time for preparation. The sun’s low rays stretch across garden beds as if slumbering from summer’s work.
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