Began as an itch, when buds rubbed
through their green shells. I would
walk alone to a hemlock grove
and rub my head against the burly bark.
One morning, bent to a lake’s face,
I saw my own, crowned with unmistakable
spikes. As suns grew warmer,
these forked forth, insignia of my place
among rooted and footed ones of the wood.
I am the moving forest.
When men dance, skulls adorned
with my buckdom, they may enter
my high longsight in their ecstasy
(for all dance is one).
I am the moving forest.
My headdress parts the winds.