The air has changed. It’s subtle, but unmistakable, the way mornings carry a faint crispness, the way the light falls lower and more golden in the evenings. After months of tending and coaxing, the garden is ready to rest, and I find myself ready to slow with it.

This week I cut back the zinnias, their cheerful faces having brightened our days since spring. They’ve given so generously, filling vases and bright corners of the house, and now they bow quietly, their seeds already whispering of next year. The basil, too, has nearly run its course. I gather the last fragrant armfuls, blending them into pesto that will bring a taste of summer to our winter table.

Buckets of roma tomatoes sit in the kitchen, their scarlet glow warm against the cool mornings. Bought in abundance while the season allows, they become sauce and salsa, a store of comfort for the months ahead. The green peppers, too, are tucked into the dehydrator, soon to be ground into a sharp, smoky paprika that will remind us of sunshine.

Even the green tomatoes, stubbornly clinging to their vines, are not wasted. There’s something hopeful in finding ways to use what lingers: chutneys, relishes, maybe even a pie. Nothing is lost; everything finds its place.

The rosemary and sage dry on the counter, waiting to be crumbled into spice blends that will carry the memory of this season into the next. And with each task, cutting, drying, storing, stirring, I feel the rhythm of a year turning, of work and rest, of holding on and letting go.

To put the garden to bed feels a little like tucking in an old friend. The soil will rest, the plants will fade, and yet their offering lingers: jars lined neatly on the shelf, herbs hanging to dry, flavors that will carry us quietly through winter. Until, of course, the winter vegetables take root, broccoli and kale, carrots and cabbage, garlic tucked deep in the soil, all quiet and steady beneath the shifting sky. For now, the garden sleeps, and I find myself exhaling with it.