On striving


Wringing the last drops out of life

in search of a silver stream of happiness,

squeezing the juice from a ripe peach

hoping the sweetness will last,

we glean the scraps looking for gold.

Only those who want little,

whose desires are rounded by a trail of trinkets

will sigh and let seep into their blood

the red ink of sunset.

Wanting something words cannot say,

I grub and delve among dark roots,

while overhead, the dancing sky-flowers

call wistfully and race

over the edge of oblivion

without me.