Today, I’m the god to whom the young buck turns for comfort.
The god in whose eyes a thousand liquid bodies find the last fresh and open water.
The god who assembles the fallen branches to convince a new forest into being.
The god shaking hands with the last of autumn’s beech leaves.
God of moss, unnamed lichen, white pine cringing in the manner of bonsai.
God of deer skull cracked on the side of the well-traveled road, god of the peat bog into which I’m falling.
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