Diving

They must look beautiful, diving for oysters. And when they come up floating, butts up, We also say that they are and they were, beautiful. What makes you dive down? is it the golden rays Dancing on the waves, or maybe it is a fear Of the city that you were born and raised in. What it feels like to be willing to die Nobody would know if nobody dived. But if nobody volunteers do I have to go? If I had a choice I would never go diving for oysters because much more than truth I want a sense of happiness But the unknown is there, a round milky smoothness Sometimes clasped in shaking fingers, gasping But most often unretrieved, continuing to taunt, glowing Beneath a sea that is more than death, a sky that is sea.