We may use the good things that pass.
In such a way as to hold fast even now.
We will all be like dried and withered grass.
However high now we will be laid low.

I was watching the tender film Nowhere Special.
About the love of a dying single father for his son.
They looked together at a dead beetle, it’s shell no longer a vessel.
It’s essence had fled, all its life quite done.

The father had to explain he was leaving.
He would not be seen but would always hear.
Soon too we will be passing.
But we will always listening, here.

The other would be adopters talk about themselves.
The chosen one asks about the boy himself.

Haiku

Talk about others
Not always about yourself
Is that not better

[Note: First two lines from the Collect of today]