Why do I cultivate the beauty of poverty,
The happy to be living only a little hungry
In a thatched hut by the side of the road
While oceans of plastic tears are held at
Mesquite thorn point poverty?
No other kind of beauty can replace it,
For all that is harmonious and green
Must be tossed aside like an empty can of oil
That can't be traded for the companionship
Found in the dusty procession of motors.
Once one surrenders to it, the trees move
As universal marionettes, the useless sand becomes
The shape the books try to approximate,
And there's no need to adjust the view
With a flourish here, a switching of valances there,
For nothing needs to be changed at all,
Despite the heart of compassion that wants
An end to the circle of suffering,
Known otherwise as the circle of life.
Acceptance comes so hard to those who have
Cultivated meaning like so many blinding stones of gold.
Those who truly cultivate nothing
Find a buddha every time in every one of these
Ruined temples time has ripped the meaning away from
To force the beauty of what can't be explained:
Each vehicle an inaccessible story
That reveals all it is as it passes
From the truth that passes understanding.
