Cold, cold, cold
The sun sets earlier now, and all the plants are dying
And I am dead too, a little
On the inside
Though perhaps, not with the the same kind of rebirth

Annuals, pretty when we plant them. Pretty when we care for them. Pretty when we invest our human hands and human time into the soil to care for them

Every spring they pop back up, sunshine and human care and warmth and the love of the beauty of it all. From death to life, all in a cycle.

But no hands have cared for me in so long, no investment. No touch. No digging in the soils of my mind to find out what could grow there.
I couldn't possibly be pretty anymore.

I've only ever had myself. I really should stop expecting to grow back
anew.