 This is a poem I wrote. It's titled A Poem for Living. Carrying planes like mistletoe to deadwind thoughts of virgin snow, Narcissus' flesh of twilight lingers, despite decays facing fingers. And moon lilies near the midnight sky, wide truth so charged is changed to lies. While doctrine hunters scavenge bone, like waters rippling over stone, Dharma's green leaf truth makes sorrow, health begins in bitter yarrow. So rookery rascals take yeast, knead the sun's butt painted gold and weed. Before death makes my head a pillow, I'll carve my flute from fruit once willed.