The morning of the first frost
I knew it was coming. The forecast had been hinting at it all week, and last night the sky cleared completely, which is always the giveaway. By six this morning every leaf in the garden was edged in white.
The basil, of course, is finished. It always goes first, turning black and limp within an hour of the sun touching it. The last of the tomatoes I'd left on the vine are soft now; I'll pull the plants this weekend and compost them.
The kale, on the other hand, looks wonderful. Frost converts some of its starches to sugar, and the leaves I picked at noon were noticeably sweeter. The chard is sulking but alive. The garlic I planted two weeks ago doesn't care at all.
Frost is the garden's way of editing. It decides what the next chapter is about.
Tomorrow I'll mulch the beds with the leaves that are finally coming down from the maple, and start thinking about what to order for spring.