The path of water is not noticed by water, but is realized by water. The dammed river knows itself, unrealized. The first time I saw the Mekong, son in arms. She sits with her daughter on the plot where her husband wasn't buried, wondering how it would feel to him. Something about time in the poem, one woman noted; it's not there, except for “April or May.” Suspickit, my daughter said. At the cash register I turned to look at my son in the stroller. Saw instead my father, white-haired, his liquid eyes. His cleft re-sewn at 20. Mine stitched at one. We don't think to stitch the mountain's clefts; waterfalls do that when it rains.
--Father's Day, 15 June 2014
"The path": Dogen
Frederick W. Schultz, 12/1/1913-11/4/1992