August has overtaken me. The morning glories are rampant. In the morning, fuchsia-hued blooms drift over everything, wire fences, arches, the okra, the tomato cages, the tall cleomes. Only the snake gourd that smells like gunpowder, with its leaves the size of hubcaps, is wild and bold enough to compete with it. The pepper plants have been infiltrated, though I'm still fighting a guerrilla war for them. The cleomes stand above, but the glory vines wrap around the cleome's stemmed throats and bloom alongside the spidery heads. Beside all these is a tender vine, a volunteer in a shady part of the garden, one, gentle soul, a white morning glory.
Is there no end to the wonder and beauty of a garden?
August has overtaken me. The morning glories are rampant. In the morning, fuchsia-hued blooms drift over everything, wire fences, arches, the okra, the tomato cages, the tall cleomes. Only the snake gourd that smells like gunpowder, with its leaves the size of hubcaps, is wild and bold enough to compete with it. The pepper plants have been infiltrated, though I'm still fighting a guerrilla war for them. The cleomes stand above, but the glory vines wrap around the cleome's stemmed throats and bloom alongside the spidery heads. Beside all these is a tender vine, a volunteer in a shady part of the garden, one, gentle soul, a white morning glory. 
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