Such difficult times for me and others. To trust and then to see the fading..a poem I wrote this afternoon.

I am here,
my coming,
my going.
Where is the
compassion?
Those plastic
Buddhists, entangled –
a drop of dew
half grown.
A whistling thrush,
flowering – and then
the fading.
I was born,
so I will die.
And life is enough.
And for you?