Willowspout

Because someone thirsty enough

to trust Old Testament wisdom

followed the deepening greens

and found a spring, silver

in the shadow of blue ridges,

I can kneel beneath

this spill of willow

limbs a century later

and drink water

risen from roots

to enter the evening

through a spout, the way

Cherokee stories say the first

people were born,

washing into the world

of such trees whose bark,

like the water I cup

to my parched mouth,

tastes leafy and sweet

and has the power,

the old ones say, to heal.