Yogi in the Garden of Waste

Yogi In the Garden of Waste

Garden of Refuse   Garden of Waste   E’er A-Bloom in Lives of Haste

A-Highway Child needs fed and preened

Roadside Ruins hint of gone seasons in the glint of a distant sun in brisk air

Car parties lost in time   The vague numb splendor of the night cruise

The Mother wears their trinkets on her body

Fast food comfort eases the pangs of hunger of the worker and the louse

The swallow and the burp, consumed and discarded

The Mother wears their trinkets on her body

The bumbling yogi sets out with tongs and bag on a route well known

Walking, stretching, lifting, and carrying the swelling totes

A drink once one in jaw, now three as cup, lid, and straw

Broken glass and mowed mangled can – slits my bag

Paper and plastic in pieces cut but quick I strike to pluck bottlecap, straw, and butt

I wave as cars go by and wonder who planted these numerous flowers

Years ago an Indian cried but now no better

Voluminous offerings her body to fetter

As a traveler I sometimes bow in shame at my cluttered sty on wheels

And wonder too at your clarity of space with debris now jettisoned

I stay slightly uneasy at my whirling craving mess

While you kick back in your facade of cleanliness

Whether you see me as eco-hero or chain-gang slave

Even if you see me as raiding your garden, I wave

Anger bumps me now and then as I am taken from my tasks

But the thought of sharing these very words guides the smoothness of my trance

Steady and rhythmic at every stretch I arrive

Along a few miles twice and hours five

I apply the balm of steady and calm that heals my reckless restlessness

A truck speeds up right near me as if to say

How dare you condescend me and pluck my sprouts today

The wind blows my empty bag as I search for anchor

Now I could use a 40 from the guy up the road who bogged me down

Ah now here is a sign, a target of bottles, a cluster for my pickings

Some displays hint of picnics and some of trick-or-treats

Others of dirty diapers to stinky to keep

The cars and wind dissolve into a glorious moment of silence

A glimpse, an instant of Just Being without the incessant play of emotions

O’er the hill I slide as I reach for a shiny prize

A few tons of flowering weeds have we plucked in this garden

But the beat goes on and the trad

of pitching the mess unwanted. She accepts her seeming desecration quietly

I bless the roadkill fresh and the bleaching bones and the living snakes and ticks

But all is not lost as some folk wave and one even thanks me

Karma yoga Earthwise tonic

We extract her treasures and offer her waste

She smiles nonetheless knowing she will devour us yet

I have raped her too as have you but what we must simply do

- is remember to tend her best we can in whatever circumstances we are able

The yogi feeds his breath and body with asanas of gathering,

with pranayama of blissful wandering,

with pratyahara of only task and analysis of task,

with dharana of objects on the ground,

with dhyana of plucking them,

with samadhi beyond description

The plucker, the plucked, and the plucking

All one unbegun moment unending.