Forest King

He wakes before the sun,

eyes coated in golden feathers,

irises filled with green-gold liquid.

A tree-man,

trunk-torso and root-legs.

Skin is bark, and skin is flower petals.

I sink into him

like a mud bank,

lamb's ear lips,

frost-coated ears,

moss hair, tufted and soft.

Straw and roots are his jaw,

inter-woven, inter-patterned quilt.

A hardened spirit,

voice is clear mountain water

and scent is clear mountain air.

I taste a mountain.

Breathes low, breathes deep,

groans low, groans deep.

A curious salamander for a tongue,

wandering vines for fingers,

twin suns for eyes

though the fire does not burn him.

He sleeps only when the moon is high,

his heat the root of life.