The Prayer Wheel

One cold afternoon
as I walked
a mountain dream,
I stopped by
a little prayer wheel
and watched it turn
with the unfaltering flow
of a happy, gurgling stream;

and I wondered and asked -
what are prayers really?
where are they born?
where do they go?
who listens to them?
who watches them flow?

and then the stream
she laughed quietly and said,
"have you felt round pebbles
stuck in the wet grass,
and the crisp fresh snow
on high mountain tops;
have you heard
the red thrush whistle
as he darts through the blue,
and caught the magic and smiles
as rain turns to hail, then snow;
what do you think?
do we pray? do you know?"

I stopped awhile
as the prayer wheel rolled,
and I think I heard the song
of the wild earth, as she turned;
and the stream she flowed on,
as she smiled and waved

my eyes they became hands,
and my steps, wings.