The mountain raises above,
The Mother of the valley,
The clouds drop to the tops of the adobe structures
Stacked one upon another,
Like children's building blocks,
Made of mud, smoothed by hand,
Made of heart.
Taos Mountain looks over the celebrations,
The procession of the virgin,
The sky is red in the west.
The clouds clear and the snow covered peak appears,
People flow from mass
In the tiny white church, onto the plaza.
Hands folded over hearts,
Voices raised in song,
Costumes of the Matachine dancers,
Silver crowns and colorful ribbons,
Masks of ancient ones,
Torches, candles, drums and rattles,
Gun fire explodes,
Bonfires are lit to transform the darkness.
The sky above the plaza equals the sky in the west,
All is ablaze, colored red, embers fly over head.
Returning to the car,
We are plunged into total darkness,
Sun is set, filled with wonder.
Hand in hand,
Together we are each alone,
Walking our separate paths,
Our hearts are filled with a new,
Ancient, old way to celebrate Christmas,
All made of heart.