It is a piece of wood, a stick.

It is a railing, an ornamental fish pendant, a seed.

It is a slender object.

It is firewood awaiting the flames, the light of a seed, the form of a growing plant.

It is also a staff of man, power, radiance.

Yet perhaps all of these are wrong—it is merely a measure of the body, a trace left by time, like us leaning against the wall, or like firewood in the hearth burning moonlight.