Older Japanese begin meals with a bite of rice 
to honor farmers and others who sacrificed
to put rice in their bowls—a quaint grace seemingly
out of time in the fast push of a modern world.

As the rains end and the river rushes to sea,
fish follow the flow and fishers follow the fish.
Boats strew nets to the slow rhythms of rumbling waves
and the markets fill with displays of their catches.

He’s not a fisherman.  He’s just a consumer.
He picks from writhing fish for evening’s dinner,
no thought of the work to bring this food to table.
He does know something concerning food’s origins,
coming from where he does, amidst vast farms and ranches
with scant reaches to urban cultural centers.
Some might ask how could a person like him grow there
and be happy.  One couldn’t, if being “happy” 
was the aim.  “Happiness” is a construct, a term 
invented for a fiction used to ease disquiet
where no one has control—such as the world itself.

He was an odd child growing up: introspective, 
staying mostly to himself with poor social skills.
Stumbles turned into lessons which became tenets 
of a flawed, piecemeal philosophy that in time,
guided the shy, young boy, into the shy, old boy
he became.  Otherwise, things carried on the same.

We are connected, you to me, and we to all.
This feels true in every atom of our being
though the epiphany seems hopeless to explain. 
We recognize some of ourselves in the other.
We come here as fragile stars born clean at the core, 
our birth sacs swept away in rivers of Earth’s tears. 
Along the way, we stop once in a while to eat.