Dry Times

Sometimes
the word stream sinks
to a trickle over tan stones,
leaving an emptiness,
high as a man's shoulder,
where water once cut a path,
rinsed soil from tree roots
as meticulously as any
archeologist's brush.
The roots elbow
from the brown bank
into the emptiness--
silent, living sculptures woven
from years and shade
to uphold the emerald
skin of the world
and to guard the chasm's
white lightening wink
where sunshine still finds
the water.