Lest you miss the passing breath,
the pause between birth and death,
the brief inhalation of your life.
Guard too the falling gauze of endings,
for they are treasure, to horde against the days of passing war,
and dreams that pass and shift, dust shuffled under passing feet.
Don’t bend to needs that are real but not your own needs
for such is the business of bees
© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com