Rice Wine

One night I came upon a small bottle of rice wine which

had, I thought, a very fine flavour. At first I drank merely

half a glass but soon, not being one to do such things by

halves, had several more until the poor small bottle

contained far less of the wine than I did. At this point I

began to feel quite mellow and relaxed and was therefore

not a bit surprised when a young woman's voice began

to speak to me from no place in particular.

Her name, she said, was Emily and she wished me to

write down some words for her. There was a pen nearby,

and some paper as well so I did as she wished. I

remember thinking at the time that I should really ask

some questions of her but by then the rice wine had taken

hold and so I let it go.

When I awoke I found the following small poem written in

a hand which was not my own:

Rice Wine

They came upon me as I slept,
But then fled silently,
Those words I wish I might have kept,
Of immortality.

It seemed, just then, that life had fled
Beyond half opened doors.
And in the quiet of my bed
I'd heard God's voice -- or Your's.

E.D. 1980
Triangle St.
Amherst, MA.

(I checked this address and found that it is a graveyard... The very one in which Emily Dickinson is buried.)