Thus have I walked.

In the quiet morning, beneath the cover of Kyoto’s clouds,
I set my feet upon the stone path of the ancients.
Temples stood in stillness, watching centuries unfold.
And I, a loyal pilgrim, climbed the hill with breathless wonder.

At the gate of Kennin-ji, I bowed in silence.
The gardens spoke in stillness—gravel, blossoms, and stone.
In the Hall of Nenge-do, the law was not spoken—
Yet in every paint stroke, rising from the Buddha, the Dharma whispered.

Above the Buddha, two dragons rose,
coiling through clouds and space—
not with sound, but with spirit.
No scroll, no ink, no voice—only the heart receiving the heart.

Among flowers and stone,
In the hush of painted sky and weathered wood,
I too smiled,
Not for knowing,
But for being.

And though my hips ached and time weighed on my shoulders,
I was not the oldest in Kyoto.
The stones were older. The wind was wiser.
And yet, in that moment, I belonged.

So may the Dharma be carried—
not by word, but by presence;
not by voice, but by smile;
not by time, but by heart.

Gassho.