The smattering of rain on my tin roof above me,
Flurries of Fall leaves swirling across the ground,
The chilled, dank wind blowing in out of a nondescript, gray overcast.
Amongst the trees—these stark skeletal legacies of last Summer's growth—
lie the fruits of their terminated efforts, carpeting the ground beneath them:
Lifeless pale mulch descending into black-stained puddles
to resume its endless, mindless circle of death and life.
The purpose behind it all, obscured
by the depression of cold, shortened days,
I could use a little encouragement,
But it's hard to find.
Perhaps next Spring,
when death subsides, and life begins again,
I shall venture out.
Until then, let me find warmth,