Monarch of the Trees

There was an era before  
I hid behind metaphors:  
a time I was unowned,  
the keeper of a deep wood  
in dirty snow -  
 
I'd check each shoulder  
scores of times,  
cover my tracks  
in ice-dead pines;  
I'd watch the seeds
lay sleeping, dry;  
shed sparks among the cones.  
 
It did not mean a thing to be  
the monarch  
of the dying trees:  
what could I do but thaw the freeze  
as all but short of light?  
And so, I smiled  
and reconciled  
the summer and the wooden wild,  
and by my heart of endless fire,  
I drew a pair of eyes.  
 
This realm they knew,  
god-owned and used;  
these eyes of twilight had perused  
the deep wood, hollow  
till I sowed  
my essence in the dirty snow.  
 
He beckoned me  
with silent cries;  
I saw the trap  
but played unwise,  
for something in me sought to writhe,  
be loved, desired, and owned -  
 
anew, my light,  
my breast belongs  
to just this god  
who craves nymph-song;  
still monarch of the trees, lifelong,  
I rule them not alone.