Winter arrived in Bermtopia on Sunday. Even though we were gifted with an "extra hour" (which, by the way, has all of us -- the Wonderfully Patient Spouse, Ben the dog and myself -- completely cattywampus for the moment), the day was gray, wet and blustery. And dark by 4:15 p.m.
Winter.
It's not all bad. We built our first fire in the fireplace. I baked -- always an adventure. And we came close to completing winterization of the Back 40 on Saturday. A dividend of our enterprise -- despite temperatures in the high 30s and a soon-to-be totally monochromatic landscape of gray and evergreen -- I have roses. The last of the season. I will miss you, my lovelies.
A glorious string of days blessed with Indian summer sunlight teased these blossoms into blooming. I left them outside as long as I could because I knew, once inside, they would flop. But Saturday, I clipped them all, creating a bouquet rich in purples, reds and deep orange. Four small buds, too tiny for a conventional vase, ended up in a jar on my kitchwen windowsill, backlit by the last of our fall foliage.
The bouquet is in my living room right now. Each time I walk by, I catch the almost imperceptible perfume of summer.
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