Fall windows fade like old stained glass, when colours drain in black and white for winter days. This sickness flies by my head on most days, but once in a while I let it pull me away. Where shimmer is as silver does. Where home wasn’t a house but it was the sense of changing like moths. At a stained glass window comes weathers fade. Pull me away. But I’ve seen worse. Let in bloom, repeat it in rebirth. And let live, once in a while.