By the time the breeze falls still and the leaves cease their rustling, it has grown late. Green deepens and yellow fades. The bees no longer buzz and the black-winged butterflies, too, have deserted the flowers. I watch the sky gradually pale, drained of its light blue before turning the deeper blue of evening. All day's varied shadows have fled the greater shadow of approaching night. I notice the dust which has accumulated on the front of the house, and a few patches where the paint is cracking. The cracks in the driveway have widened as well, and a few more boards have begun to lean away from the weathered fence. Everything here is beginning to look a bit frayed. It feels appropriate. I would like to let everything outside fall into disrepair, and weeds displace the lawn. I would like to be the eccentric guy who lives in the run-down house. Despite the fact that I am compulsively cleaning the interior, I am in the mood for seeing made things decay. Let deer browse the uncultivated plants and raccoons nest in the undergrowth. Let the whole outdoors return to nature. I would sit in my pristine space and watch it all happen.
But I know I'll probably clean the place up eventually. Suburbia will triumph over wilderness -- here, at least, -- and the weed-free lawn will gleam before a freshly painted facade. Propriety demands it. But I will always picture the yard as it might be, the plants running riot as termites and weather consume the siding, and the eroding pavements vanish under moss.