Some are dark hearts full of trembling secrets of enslavement

some dry and dangerous

some alternately fly-infested and freezing

some damp and frail

but all spirit-rich

homes to folk with leaves in their eyes

(and mushrooms in their pockets)

who dream of chasing animals among branching shadows,

for whom the future is a tree-root that presses open rocks of the past,

with whom all stems intertwine,

in whom all saps and bloods and rivers mingle,

under whose power a single bud

becomes an eye, a wing, a soul,

becomes the whole