Oakenheart - Old Growth

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 cold air of th first autumn night

A flock of birds ascends into the clouded firmamnt

A white stag heads for the forgotten glade

The black wolves prepare for the sacred hunt

A druid is born: Mossweaver

Oakenheart