rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Warmer Still

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.

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