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  • It is called Kabocha squash. It has a yellow flesh. It carries its own seed. When I harvested my winter squash I've made the statement. Summer is done. We are now preparing for winter. My garden is left with a few hard green tomatoes, some sweet carrots, regal marigolds, and a huge bush of parsley. The basil plant has gone to seed and blackened. The sunflowers are bent with their growing seeds,their yellowness turned to fringe. It is a garden past growing, not glorious but fruitful. The moon has gone gibbous again. The young red maple shows huge red leaves. I can see deep into the woods now as the brush is dying down. It has rained almost every day and the sun has shined majestic. There have been rainbows. This is my story. It is not big. Days are shorter.

    The changes I gather and respect are cyclical and recognizable by the seasonal tells. I know them after my almost thirty years here. It is my time of year to go thoughtful. I pull in, ask for order and quiet. Time to reflect and recall. As in each Kabocha squash I carry my own seeds into the quiet season to come, through the long nights and prepare them to plant with the next return.
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