July is more like the high school graduate, eternally optimistic and full of future plans. No one tells the month of July that a thing is not possible by September. September, when suddenly the season is caught by surprise looking backward for the first time since last autumn.

Walking through my vegetable gardens, I begin to project a fruitful harvest. Not yet have I abandoned the intensive weeding that has kept my space so tidy. My garden is still self-conscious about its appearance, even if so far my yield has been limited to rhubarb, radishes and greens.

In time, as my garden gains more confidence, the corn will have outgrown the sprouts of grass growing between the rows. By August, the pumpkins, squash and cucumber vines will carpet the ground. Tomatoes will have bent their cages, laden with ripened fruit.

The other vegetables, the cauliflower, broccoli, eggplant, beans and potatoes, will grow thick, filling the space between plants, such that the price of any harvest on a dewy morning is a wet pair of pants.

There will be a day down the line, some sunny warm September afternoon, when the crickets will sing loudly, and the smell of tomato vines will fill the air. September’s garden accepts its imperfections. It is no longer concerned with what its friends and neighbors think, and is generally happy with itself for what it has become.

In maturity, the autumn garden gives of itself. Everything it does is now about maximizing its yield. Like compounded interest, all previous investments of labor and time begin to multiply. It is the season of accounting and reconciliation. As usual, the balance sheet this year will show again, too many zucchini and not enough potatoes.

For now, I enjoy the variety of green leafy textures. I wake up and visit my garden while walking my dog around the yard. Daily now, I am surprised that a pumpkin vine can grow half a meter, apparently overnight.

Already my path to the compost bin has been overgrown, and so rather than risk damaging a productive vine, I go around the long way, taking my scraps to the bin past the old brick pile where the raspberries grow.

Raspberries grow quickly, flowering white one day in the springtime, only a week after its leaves break bud. Now, full berries not yet ripe catch my eye. They will need to be checked daily. I was taught young by a German neighbor who liked to garden to only take what the plant willingly gives. If the fruit holds on to its mother, it is not yet ripe or ready to go. But if I wait too long, they might all be snatched up by the birds.

We all enjoy sun-ripened raspberries fresh off the vine, but I have noticed that the robins will always take the berry I have my eye on, exactly one day before its prime.

I am grateful for my gardens and the seasons that slowly turn, and I wonder how different I might be if I did not have them to watch and learn from. I observe things, small changes, and growth over time. And I understood a long time ago that I, too, follow the cycle of the sun. My gardens became my mentors, and for the lessons they have taught me, I have become a better man.