Tall twisted oak stands solid in her affrighted woo

Such longing, but faintly sensed by some soft-treading stranger

Her message, like a mantra, repeats in hushed tones

"Many times removed from its source is the shadow of the Moon's light

Primordial being's sounding, if heard, is never wrong or right"

And so shiverless in stillness do her roots and branches reach

Deep blue and grey cold seeping into winter's wood

Icy is her stare and fierce limbs do moan and creak

Yet devotion follows in the footsteps of soft prompting

And dreams forever of being enveloped in the warmth