We had our first frost last night. My morning walk around the garden was filled with both beauty and melancholy. Beauty, because the entire garden sparkled. Frost edged the serrated leaves of the viburnums, the top of the hay bale and pile of leaves the kids play in, and each and every petal of the red and yellow marigolds spilling over the edges of the vegetable garden. In the few minutes I was out there, the sun began to melt the frost. By the time I came in, the frost was just a memory — I could have convinced myself that it had been a figment of my imagination, except for the need to stamp my freezing feet to warm them up again.

Melancholy, because, of course, this is the end. So long, summer. It was a great season. The summer was full of tomatoes, lettuce, and beans. Caterpillars, butterflies, dragonflies, toads, and even feral cats adopted our garden this year. I hope it was as welcoming to them as it has been to us.

I’ll miss sitting on the garden bench, sweaty, dirty, and sore after a morning of digging and weeding. The satisfaction that comes from a few hours of battling clay, stubborn sod, and tree roots is something that only gardeners can understand. It’s the same tired you feel after good sex — worn out, but oh, so satisfied. No wonder gardening is so addictive.

So, I’ll miss my summer garden. But now I have a whole fall and winter to plan and scheme, and dream of next year’s abundance.