It is a section of wood, a stick;

a railing, a hanging fish, a seed lying dormant.
It rests as a linear form – firewood awaiting flame, the light within a seed,

the shape of a plant stretching.
Perhaps it is a
sceptre
, power, and light;

or perhaps all of this is mistaken – It is merely the measure of a body,

a trace of time paused in the grain of wood.

Like us standing against the wall,

or like that piece of firewood in the hearth,

quietly burning with moonlight.