The Farm

The farm is a giant mandala
Weeds you pluck today, are back tomorrow
A belly you filled then, is hungry now
The peas you picked have grown back

And you should rejoice
That the animals and peas are growing
That the soil, fertile for weeds, is fertile for crops

But instead you want to scream
For just one minute

And sometimes you do
When you’ve just laid down the fresh hay
And the calf has the indecency to soil it again
Before you even leave the stall
You pause and lean against the wood panels
Of the old barn

And then you feel a kinship with Sisyphus
Pushing a boulder
Going nowhere
But striving with all your might

And you consider Mary Poppins
Industrious and curiously cheerful
In the presence of a never ending mess

And for a brief moment
You understand why
The monks destroy
The mandalas
That take so long to build

And you realize that
The calf is your Tibetan master
Not your prison guard