It’s rainy dark and cold. The leaves have given up their lives for the sake of fertilizing the soil that gave them life.

Unclad trees reveal their new scars from the recent summer’s rage.

I stare out at them, and they back at me, yearning for the recent occasion when I wore less layers and they wore more.

I offer them a weak smile, but the cruel wind blows the rain in such a manner that it blurs my expression of solidarity.

I’m procrastinating and they are busy bracing themselves for what lies ahead.

They might say I’m being selfish, writing this, when my task is a lot more undemanding than theirs.

I have to choose something to eat, don a jacket and commence cleaning the room where I slumber.

The days are getting shorter and I have yet to switch on the heat in the place where I create dreams.

My wish is to acquire a tool, whether human or machine, to perform my chilly task.

I know when I start my chore, the trees will look in the windows at me,

and laugh at my humanness.

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