silencing the steady drip within her hollow. Beckoning the

cold to freeze her fate before they fall in sorrow. A branch now lifted of its weight. A relief from a setting suns fade. ­An icicle letting go of its fate. Only to return the next day. Footsteps no longer leaving prints. But a steady gate now leaving nothing. Planted in front of me my prints seemingly

growing smaller. As I step into the melt.

The Acequia Madre is still dry here at Taos

The big old cottonwoods along it, quiescent.

The cacique out at the pueblo still watching where the sun ­rises

Each day slightly further north above the sacred mountain.

The people are cleaning their ditches with shovel and fire.

Then, at the right moment,

The mayor domo will open the head gates and the water of ­life will flow.

We’ll hear it in our dreams

And wake to find the ditch full and speaking its many voices.

The huge wrinkled Yggdrasil cottonwoods will feel the water,

Waken, drink deep, burst into flower and leaf

And scatter their seed in fluffs and drifts of cotton snow.

For now, all still waits.

Yet, look up:

The high bare branches of the World Trees bear fruit of ­doves.

by Gerald Phillips