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

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