Happy 1st day of Fall!🎃🍂🍁🌼🍄

Here are the gardening jobs for this season.

#AutumnGardening #FallGardenJobs #SeasonOfHarvest #GardenInAutumn #GrowAutumn

https://t.me/c/1176713490/103113

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Autumn does not ask permission; it arrives with finality — fire in the trees, a sudden bite in the air. The garden exhales, its beds sag, flowers bow, fruits loosen and fall. To walk here now is to step into a cathedral of endings, luminous and insistent.

First comes the harvest. Apples bruise in the grass, pears drop with a hush, pumpkins glow among withering vines. Roots pull free, cold and mud-streaked. The garden gives its last gift: food to simmer, cellar, bottle, tuck away — abundance shadowed by farewell.

What gave must also be cleared. Blackened beans, brittle stems, tangles of annuals all return to compost. Leaves fall too beautiful to sweep, yet you rake them anyway, knowing their decay becomes gardener’s gold. Clearing is letting go, heaping is preparing.

Still, seeds of faith are planted. Bulbs lowered into dark soil, garlic pressed into furrows, broad beans defying frost. Work nearly invisible, done in trust. The eyes cannot see what the heart already knows will return.

Discipline follows: perennials divided, roses trimmed, climbers tied, hedges cut, beds fed with compost and mulch. Tools too are tended — pruners sharpened, handles oiled, pots scrubbed, glass wiped clear. In mending steel and wood, you prepare both garden and self.

Around you, decline plays its theatre: bees stagger drunk through fading blooms, geese etch the sky with their cries, woodsmoke mingles with damp soil and apples. To stand in the garden is to feel time’s weight and lightness at once.

This is autumn’s paradox — ending and beginning, grief and promise. You clear, plant, sharpen, store, mend, laugh, curse, and discover joy not of spring’s exuberance but of cycles kept honest. Decline is not defeat but rhythm.

Even without a garden, the invitation remains: cook what’s offered, repair what will be needed, sit with endings and see beginnings inside them. Autumn is not endured but participated in. In its work, it offers kinship with the turning world.