During the warm days of Indian summer, the garden sends forth its heady scents with a pungency they never possessed in the height of the season. We walk through our fading botanica and the fragrances rise from the earth as from an oven. Fawning slaves press us with aromatic oils. Perfumes labeled ‘Ecstacy’ and ‘Opium’ pervade the air. The smells are inebriating and reassuring. Those dread fears of spring were foolish and vain. This summer was as beautiful as every other. 

The hot peppers and lantana, the parsley and basil, the scented geranium and lemon verbena, they produce scent shadows and scent currents, scent mists and scent fog. The boxwood sends its ancient mustiness in invisible clouds. The privet hedge has long lost its blooms and yet recalls spring. Oak leaves decay at our feet for the first time in a year; their drying parchment smells of books and bark.

This summer was as beautiful as the others. Don’t go. Stay.

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