Sierra V. Fedorko

In these days which are neither height of bustling summer nor invigorating rush of autumn’s beginning, I start to notice the change in light, my gaze is pushed past the withering sunflowers to the sky. I’m drawn to the the blue canopy above. Everything dying pushes my gaze up, up, up.

Isn’t that just like hope?

I wait for rain. I wait for the golden hues of the setting sun to soften the harsh edges of late summer.

I harvest and jar plentiful seeds from this year’s burst of hollyhocks and sunflowers. I shelve them. And wait.

The garden is always in some kind of waiting.

Me, too.

There are many more warm days ahead, plenty of time before the sunflowers fully die and the finches dance between the stalks feasting on the wealth of scattered, miscellaneous seeds. It will be awhile before it rains. I pray it comes sooner than later.

But just like spring, I wait with anticipation. I watch for it. I see how God is faithful, how the season will turn at last.❤