The grass was tall and dewy in the morning when I was on my way to catch the early train with the mail. The days were hot, and the high sun was ripening the black mountain cherries that would stain everything with their bloody nectar: chin, fingers, knobby knees, bathing suits.Clouds were billowing, their over whipped creaminess resting on the crests, like heavenly desserts. But, a storm was on its way, and the farmer needed to act fast and collect the grass before the rains. He would assess the weather, and knew that he had two days to harvest the hay. The smell after the first day was sweet and licoricy, as the Monet like haystacks dotted the meadows. Then, on day two, the family was recruited to haul them on his red truck. fast, fast they worked, to make sure that the cows would have a plentiful winter.
I am harvesting my herbs for my tisanes. There is something poignant about the naked stems,even after their duty was done,they remained graceful,fragile, but sturdy.