Dear Tim,
A colleague and friend here, a zen practitioner from Scotland,
is a Tree-Ring Scientist, studying ancient climates worldwide via
Dendrochronology.
He does most of the computation, and computer-support, at the Laboratory for
Tree Ring Studies at the University of Arizona, in
Tucson.
We were both long-time students of Pat Hawk Roshi (in the Diamond
Sangha line of Robert Aitken); Pat passed away recently, and his
memorial here was last Saturday.
I appreciate your poem, and I hope it is a comfort in your friend's
grieving. I'd say she's fortunate to have you as a friend!
Tears on the keyboard, here, in the circumstances. Your poem was
moving to me, and something came to me through it.
For our Pat Hawk Roshi, and for all, I pen this poem:
Tree rings have no bound;
Even in Winter, rings grow.
Our lives: One big ring!
--Joe
> "tim" <Timgoes@...> wrote:
>
> The trees' annual rings form in winter.
> The only season that spits the years
> that chart our lives.
>
> I wrote it hoping to comfort my closest friend who lost her father. Tim
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