A wizened creature once I met Upon a dusty road As I was hiking thru' Tibet Some seven year ago. A wee old lama, bent with age - His brown, wind-burnished skin Did make him seem much more the sage Than th'rosary 'neath his chin. An orange robe, a begging-cup, Bifocals - all his load. Together we drank tea and supped Beside the mountain road. He babbled in some monkish tongue I could not understand, And flashed white teeth by setting sun, And gestured with his hands. But when the stars shone brightly out And night was burning cold, He gazed up, silent and devout As stone - steady and old. At last I fell to weary rest, My blanket on the ground. I may have dreamed, yet I attest I heard a chanting sound. At dawn I woke, and looking 'round, I found my camping chum Who smiled at me without a sound And down the trail did run. My eyes in morning light may have With drowsy senses toyed, But I will swear that down the path There ran a laughing boy!
May 15, 2003