The Kind of Day the Poets Write About

Today was the kind of weather day that almost makes mowing a privilege and a blessing (hey, I said ALMOST).  I have vacation time that needs to be used up soon, so I came home at noon and headed outside.  Alot of the property can be done with a riding mower, provided one is okay with steep inclines and very heavy motorized machinery (thank you, Linda), but there are areas that are either too steep entirely, or too narrow for maneuverability. So we use a walking mower there, and this time of year I actually enjoy doing it, for the first hour or so anyway. My  favorite place to mow is the grape arbor, which is about 15-20 feet long, running down the slope. At the 'top', we can see the mountains--which were stunningly clear today, admire the joyful white flowers in the strawberry bed, catch whiffs of lilac--or at least, imagine how sweet the air will be in a few more days when the blossoms are fully opened (some former owner loved lilacs; we have at least a dozen very large, old lilacs in purples and white scattered about), pause to consider the metaphors inspired by the still-blushing grape vines as they reach for each other, leaning in as if to whisper their heart's desire to a beloved. At the 'bottom' of the arbor, we can see the blueberry bushes making magnanimous promises, echinaceas & yarrows spreading lush foliage so fast we can almost see it growing, stonecrop glowing like sunlight as it dangles over the edge of the raised bed, and the vegetable beds we built last year waiting impatiently to produce all that lush abundance  last year's bad weather pre-empted.
But all good things come to an end, or at least, the pause button gets pushed.  The glory of the day has been cloaked by twilight, the fruit trees are swaddled against the frost forecasted for the wee hours, and the moon is high in the sky, lighting the way for true nightfall to arrive.