Driene, once a forest of holy oaks,


has oldways crossing


from farm to ancient farm.


Out walking, we tread paths


where Saksen footsteps,


long sunk into the earth


are part of the landscape,


part of the very ground


that clings


to the soles of our shoes


and the edge of our souls.


The oak behind our house


stands alone.


Wodan, benevolent guardian


in summer green tunic


spreads his arms to the sky


fingers reaching


to follow all the water


that runs beneath the ground.


Leafy arms spread


to offer shade


and a bit of peace


on an August afternoon.


In his autumn glory,


burnished copper and gold


Wodan’s breastplate dazzles.


He is tender and courtly, dropping loveletters




to the sweet-scented, waiting earth


and she bears him many children.


Come December he is barechested,


less benevolent.


All the strength of his naked arms




as he stretches in the east wind,


the gesture of a tree god


as he calls


his brothers to the wild hunt.


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