I’m growing a tree of creature comforts, fruits of myriad colors that I lop off and throw on the ground to rot in disuse. Flowered tree of creature comforts, so lovely. Colourful, odorless petals that I delicately protect from insects and worms. My glorious tree of creature comforts. Mustn’t expose to harsh light or they dry up, brittle off, crack and crumble in your hands as you inspect their beauty. Odorless, painted flowers of creature comfort, the tree is barren, splotches of color cannot revive. Fruitless tree of creature comforts, I bury my life at your feet. I enshrine my life at your base. I beg, I pray that you may bear fruit, but it is all artifice, painted splotches of color to fool the eye at a distance, never to withstand scrutiny. Tree of creature comforts, spicy Indian shrine with tangy acidic incense, creature comforts wafting about, orange, pinkish, yellow puffs of smoke. Revive, revive, dead flowers, petals of plastic and paper, the sun’s scrutiny to burn down. Tree of bare limbs, bare limbs, tree of creature comforts. Where will I rest my weary head after the long day? On whose fruit will I feed myself as I age? Tend to her, tend to her. Will she bear fruit? This tree of creature comforts…. Or will I wither at her feet as she fossilizes into a grey mass of stone and carbon, old faded splotches of flower and fruit embedded in her fossil skin. Bark of ages marked by false attempts at grafts.