Looking for flowers

1. I walked by the river to look for flowers, but they didn’t help. I still felt lost. Drinking with a friend helps my epilepsy but eventually I still go home to sleep alone. 2. Spring is a wild time; flowers with their waving stamens intoxicate and bewilder me. Steep banks and bends in the river are like old men hunched over sticks, and I’m afraid of slipping. Desire for poetry and wine are driven by the same craziness; no need for anyone to urge us on. 3. A few families keep their homes by the river and they tend flowers in their gardens— red petals reflecting in white petals. Now I know how to repay the spring— nurture beauty in the deep bamboo— that and wine to banish my weary years. 4. To the east, the flowers are withered like smoke. At least one can drink, sing, dance with a prostitute, and pretend. 5. Monks are buried at the pagoda— a good place to relax in the spring and enjoy peach trees that blossom without being attended. 6. The path to my neighbor’s place is lined with flowers and trees heavy with blossoms. I walk over for a visit but I’m delayed by butterflies and orioles. 7. Peach blossoms distract me from growing old. They make their show and fall in good time, but, please, could their buds bloom more slowly?