the green man goes back to bed

 he opens his heart to birdsong,
feels fizz-prickle of bud fissure —
a frisson of eternal expectancy.
he hungers for strong summer sun
but remains stoic under starlight and spring storm.
he yawns limbs unfurled,
sends sweet sap down to earth;
must pay mycorrhizal newsboys
for missed winter tidings
— cold comforts for the reluctant age.
ah well, but…
he becomes evanescent mind,
spreading thought tendrils
through soil and stone and stream.
he takes to thrawn brooding,
tallying bills,
reconciling accounts,
re-membering his being.
he sees you there, holding the ax,
smells your insatiable want,
tastes poison in air and water,
knows his children will fall.
though longanimous will of the wood abides
still…
there is much to reconsider
in his days of waking.
— his numbers are thinned
— his bodies are broken
— his skin gnawed to bone-wood
he is too old for this.
he thinks he may return to dreaming,
awaiting august fulfillment,
leaving youthful maypoles to unrequited lovers.