The end-of-summer-harvest-time is unique.

It's the time of year when all of the previous months have built to their climax.

All of the winter planning and dreaming,

the speaking tenderly to spring seedlings,

the transplanting and summertime tending,

now offers back a shower of colorful, weighty goodness one is never quite prepared for.

This season offers the juiciest flavors, the most eye-popping colors and the inspiration to cook, create and preserve. It is a time that overwhelms the senses.

At the same time - with all this abundance, the garden itself seems to shift and begin to take on a different look. These strong, generous plants are no longer at their peak. As the fruits and vegetables fill up baskets and buckets and fall off the scales, the plants themselves begin to look tired. They are well into their own second half of life. Branches heavy with fruit have been munched by insects, leaves once glossy have been browned and yellowed in places by the sun. Dots of powdery mildew appear as winter squash and melon ripen on the vine. They are at their most productive - yet past being admired for their own beauty.

These plant friends of mine remind me of myself. They have mothered their young to the point of being plucked from their leafy arms in all of their glorious ripeness.

Do these vines feel the pride swelling within them as their offspring head off onto adventures of their own?

Do they feel the catch in their voice - the pain of separation from that which they fed and nourished?

Do they wonder sometimes - late at night, how it can be that their own youth so quickly faded?

As the garden's luminous green shifts into fall's muted tones, my counter tops are aglow with these bright jewels of the season - a rainbow of sustenance waiting to become the most incredible meals we will taste all year.

Their glory is in full display on our platters, garnished with bright green herbs and glistening olive oil. The evidence of their magnificent flavor echoes off the dining room walls as "mmm"s escape lips between bites.

When we circle our table mid-winter as the snow covers the ground, we will think back to these days with longing.

In the springtime, green salads and asparagus will grace our forks, yet we will long for the ripe tomato and the crisp cucumber. Jars of pickles and tomato sauce will hint at summer’s freshness, but they can never deliver exactly what this season does.

The end-of-summer-harvest-time is unique.

Only now can I feel the soft fuzz of a cherry tomato melt on my tongue, the bite releasing that shocking burst of sweetness.

Only now can I bury my face deep into a bouquet of freshly picked basil.

Only now do I sigh, overwhelmed at the mountains of cucumbers I intend to turn into relish and pickles.

This is a fleeting season.

Today I will remind myself how precious it is.

I will try to sit with the awareness of its lavish gifts.

I will try to temper my exhaustion, my dirt stained fingernails and my itching skin with appropriate awe for this generous, beautiful harvest time.

I'll do my best to honor the offering my garden has given. To bow in wonder and reverence for her dried out leaves, her chewed up stems and her strong, deep roots.

I'll think of what it cost her.

I'll bring my gratitude with me and let it overflow like my harvest basket does, as I walk the paths of my garden.