take

There in the grays of the season settling, there in the blues imbued dusk, the shape goes soft. Vision scratched and hindered, the roosting birds come home. All this splintered purpose spent over the long dull stretch of days, the years fraying the fabric until the wind blows clean through life. One thread, one blossom, one grain of sand. Every bit absolutely necessary, but the world is the story of getting by without. I’ve had about all the time I can stand.