It is that time of season where summer is starting to lose it’s charm in our neck of the woods. It is hot. And sticky. And dry. And no amount of watering keeps the plants from wilting and or the grass from turning brown.
So I set my alarm early this weekend to get out in the garden before it was sweltering and the I admit I was a little grumbly about it. Because I was sick of watering and weeding and feeding and fighting pests on the tomatoes and black spot on the roses. So the entire time I was staking up the raspberries (which are being ravaged by some unknown disease or insect that no amount of googling has led me to a conclusion) I was composing an open letter to August because my feelings for it were much like February. I had all the details in my head.
But then I saw this.
And after I wiped the condensation off my lens from the humidity I got to enjoy these.
And suddenly my grumpy letter to August disappeared because how could February compete with fresh raspberries?
Yep August has nothing on February. Bring on the heat!