Wooden Fingers

With thin arms reaching towards the sky,
he sings through the sun's ambiance.
His hands outspread and fingers curled,
in his arms lies a natural world,
that with it sleeps a hallow bed,
for birds that sleep in branches high.

His skin a thicket, deep and brown,
his body rough, a pine cone kiss.
His leaves drape down like emerald curls,
with spider vanes that wing and twirl,
and flutter like the feathered birds,
that perch on fingers all around.

His legs so rooted stand like wood,
and feet buried beneath the earth.
He barley moves his corkscrew toes,
but dances smooth when wind's song blows;
his hair rides softly in the breeze,
that hides heads in a leafy hood.

Fingers cradling sleeping wrens,
the sun setts on the sleepy land.
In yellow, orange and gold a glow,
the white orb paints his sleek shadow,
while sleepy eyed he droops his face,
holding so close his feathered friends.