In rivers, the water that you touch is the last of what has passed and the first of that which comes; so with present time.

The water you touch in a river is the last of that which has passed, and the first of that which is coming. Thus it is with time present.

In rivers, the water that you touch is the last of what has passed and the first of that which comes: so with time present.

The water you touch in a river is the last of that which has passed, and the first of that which is coming. Thus it is with time present.
Life, if well spent, is long.

The water you touch in a river is the last of that which has passed, and the first of that which is coming. Thus it is with time present.

Life, if well spent, is long.

When I stand by the stream and watch it, I am relatively still, and the flowing water makes a path across my memory so that I realize its transience in comparison with my stability. This is, of course, an illusion in the sense that I, too, am in flow and likewise have no final destination — for can anyone imagine finality as a form of life? My death will be the disappearance of a particular pattern in the water.

Something stirs that once had life. It drops</br>Into the stream, a last act of faith.</br>Seedballs of sycamore, incautious leaves of willow,</br>These have outstayed their autumn, teasing death</br>Only so far, not yet beyond all patience.</br>Now they let go.

Life is a stream
On which we strew
Petal by petal the flower of our heart;
The end lost in dream,
They float past our view,
We only watch their glad, early start.

Freighted with hope,
Crimsoned with joy,
We scatter the leaves of our opening rose;
Their widening scope,
Their distant employ,
We never shall know. And the stream as it flows
Sweeps them away,
Each one is gone
Ever beyond into infinite ways.
We alone stay
While years hurry on,
The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

Everything flows, nothing remains

The hand which scoops up the water is the first vessel. The fingers of both hands intertwined are the first basket. [p. 217]

When a stream comes to some stones in its path, it doesn't struggle to remove them, or fight against them, or think about them. It just goes around them. And as it does, it sings. Water responds to What's There with effortless action.

...all that is carried along
by the stream's silvery cascade,
rhythmically falling from the mountain,
carried by its own current — carried where?

Crossing the river by feeling the stones.

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.