he was
born of fire
quenched
in the unmelting heart
of the north star
high above the clouds
his eyes

were the color

of dying embers

in ash
but his lips
had the hint
of blue
from years
spent trapped
in the farthest
reaches of space

the clouds
obscure the forest
from the eyes
of the witch
that casts auguries
carved
from the finger bones
of giants
in a wooden bowl

he dreamt
of the sweeping limbs
of the willow

while the witch
searched for the key