Of Gardens and Garbage

The ends of these end-of-summer days bring the glow that only comes during long, nearly-autumn sunsets. It startles me to see the world that way, my garden positively radiant and my near-by garbage can especially out of place in evening's dying breath.

Yes, the light simultaneously catches my breath at the rightness of my garden and the wrongness of my garbage can.

It's a surprise I expect, wait for, linger in. After all, it's right, absolutely correct, for the garbage can to be wrong and the garden to be right.

In my inner world, though, the one where my priorities sit neatly arranged, the light's autumn glowings cast a few shadows I didn't expect, bring out more garbage cans than I remember bringing in. It's hard to tell, but some of the very priorities that have been most garden-like to my soul begin to look the opposite, as if they are in the earliest stages of a metamorphosis, or at least a change in hierarchy.

Or perhaps they've simply been hit by autumn's first frost, unexpectedly, without any warning, and patiently await the gardener to empty the beds, weather the winter, and start fresh.