Riddle

Likeness of limbs,
moss-laden, with twisting
branches into fingers.

Caress the wind,
O my soul,

Length of me:
hardened magma.
What will you (Can you?)
do to the truth?

My roots do not have shape,
They flow, fly,
flee the mountainside,
and rest in deep places.

Sometimes I fall asleep,

And what a fickle
little heart.