After nine days of hanging, seeing just
branches and leaves, the god forgot himself
and focused on the tree, went into it
as one in water loses themselves, stroke
by stroke, the body more rhythm than man,
went into the shape the tree had been, into
the shape it would become given the reach
of its limbs, into the shape made as the wind
stirred him and tree alike –
where once was branch
and leaf, he began to see line after line,
cut against light, each cross of light and dark
coming together in the sound of wind –
the god, himself made of eternal things,
knew he could only take this back in pieces.