The monk is eighty-seven. There’s no fat
left on his feet to defend against stones.
He forgot his hat, larger in recent years.
By a creek he sees a woman he saw fifty summers
before, somehow still a girl to him. Once again his hands
tremble when she gives him a tin cup of water.
~ Jim Harrison
From After Ikkyu and Other Poems
Hearing a crow with no mouth
Cry in the deep
Darkness of the night,
I feel a longing for
My father before he was born.
From A Zen Harvest
Trans. by Soku Shigematsu