When summer began I had high hopes for a flowery bower, a vine-entwined pergola under which we would sip tea in the morning and eat our raucous dinners at night. The deck was empty without the climbing rose, and we would make up for it with some cheap lattice panels and the promise of a vine. It’s taken the whole summer but finally we have tendrils, slight, clingy things that wrap themselves around whatever they can find. And today, we have a purple morning glory, a sweet gift at summer’s end.