Does he brush away the sediment settled on your bones? And melt them in a cauldron to recast in the half-light under your lashes?
Born twice but living a hundred lives, shooting up from beneath the beetle’s corpse and find the blasted light from whence you came. Etched with the lines that paint you in bark and skin and the sap that bleeds like milk.
Until man comes to fell you with his horns blaring the dusk, scattering raccoons who dance in the shade that filters between the leaves.
Is the rain pumped through your arteries? The sun your flesh made putrid? The soil your shelter?
It is the crystals of knowledge you lick in the morn and the blueprint of the world unfolding. Seeing, breathing the mist, finally understanding why man is but a suicidal beetle under the mineral plains.