It happened in a country like Tibet,
My dream: I’d climbed a mountain pass and found
Where locals wrote their slips of prayer and let
Them rot between the rocks and on the ground.
Asleep, not feeling any reverence,
I picked one out and saw to my surprise
That it had been addressed to me. Its sense
Was mystical; it said, “With open eyes,
You’ll never see the proof that God exists,
Only the evidence: The fire, the ice,
The snowballs melting in your frozen fists.”
Shutting my eyes in dream, I woke up twice
And, groping for the prayer, I couldn’t find it,
Nor could I remember who had signed it.
Articles by Wilmer Mills
