Wanting to know what satisfies
an ancient hunger you’re not even certain is yours,
countless streets, endless questions,
bottomless pans, and tears of frustration
over a lifetime
have added up to a hillock of humus,
dark, fertile, and remembered.
The sought after whatsit, the toil of time and love,
may or may not ever amble up to you,
paws dirty with devotion.
The wanting filling your carved out places,
a blue, swirling smoke scented from the beyond,
is itself required elixir
drawing you deeper into life.
Cursing that desire away, and aimlessly trying to fulfill it
means trading your own gold for dull, already forgotten tin.