The new herb bed, which went in late, is going gangbusters, with basil and lavender and French tarragon and rosemary and pineapple sage (about to bloom!) and German mountain sage and French thyme and woad and sunflowers.
The morning glories, both Carnivale and Grandpa Otts, are all over the place and starting to make seeds for next year.
And, datura. I planted datura from last years' seed in a spot that we then tore up to put in the herb bed and I figured, no datura this year. But one determined soul showed up in late August and I just couldn't bear to mow her down. Last night, she bloomed. A scent between vanilla and lemon and such gorgeous flowers; it's one of my favorite plants.
It's wonderful how, even now, as we head towards the dark, the plants are still soaking up sunlight and turning it into: everything.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."