Blooming all alone

The Last Rose of Summer
Thomas Moore
'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming all alone,
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred,
No rose bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

More Ordinary But So Joyful Days

Scenes of summer's bounty.

Yesterday, we visited the York Farmer's Market, a first for us.

When we lived in Rye, our regular Saturday destination was the big market in Portsmouth with its live music; ethnic food vendors; organic meats and produce; and flowers flowers flowers.

We approached the market not expecting to be WOWed but were delighted with the experience.

The market, only about a mile from our house, sits on the top of a little shady hill on Route 1 just off the Maine Turnpike and right next door to Stonewall Kitchen's flagship store (but that's another story for another blog post).

There were the usual craft vendors, non-profits and issue advocates:
but these were surrounded by small growers and bakers. Our bounty consisted of artisan cheeses from Westbrook (a Tuscan curd & harvaati-like cheese), fresh flowers that filled three vases when we got home; hand-crafted granola; a delicious long, slendor 3-cheese baguett;
and vegetables! fresh snap peas, swiss chard, onions, new potatoes, fabulous red red red beets.
And HUGE surprise !OLIVES! from Greece that are brined just a mere 2 towns away in Sanford.
The family owns property on the southern tip of Greece on the Mediterranean.
~~~~~~~~~~

My sister Michelle invited me to meet her at Emily Dickenson Museum in Amherst (Massachusetts) for a flower arranging seminar.

We met in the afternoon, for an interesting discussion of the role and uses of flowers in the home in the 19th century. And then made arrangements with flowers using design principles we'd learned.

This is one of the tussie-mussies we made - a typical nosegay for Victorian ladies.

What fun!!!
We also each made typical floral arrangements for vases as well.

Hope ~~ perches in the soul

HOPE

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune ~~ without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.