He wakes before the sun,
eyes coated in golden feathers,
irises filled with green-gold liquid.
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,
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.