I already have a greenman:
Old Oak-face, patient and wise.
But this one is younger, merrier:
Birch leaves dancing on a spring breeze.
And though he speaks of mysteries,
They are younger too, from the forest edge
And do not threaten the novice
With dark tales of the deep places
At the very roots of the world.
I will hang this one in the hall,
To greet people, meet then where they are
And seek to draw them deeper.
There is a fragrance of leaves
That hangs in the air
And marks the path more surely
Than any written signpost