Oakenheart

My journey ends
This is the settling of the wanderer
I lay down my weary limbs on a wet bed of moss
I taste the dew, drink some resin, climb the clouds
And collect some stars
I cloak my body in leaves of fern
And make my mouth the nest of the night snake

I replace my lonesome heart with acorns
The seedling will sprout within my chest
I place two cones of pitch pines in my orbits
I will envisage a new world
I witness my last breath vanish into
The air of the first autumn night

A flock of birds ascends into the clouded firmament
A white stag heads for the forgotten glade
The black wolves prepare for the sacred hunt
A druid is born, Mossweaver, Oakenheart