Scraping the Dimness

Like a prune, it was an old year, standing before me. You start counting the wrinkles. In shift, you become the problem, cannot read the jigsaw. It had uprooted the faith. I was terribley upset, the birds had not returned to the lake this winter; what do I do, I was talking to moon. A new misty morning. I take a small foot, set myself in the god’s hour and start planting the bulbs of tulips. Satish Verma