Wood searches for light—
whether in the sky
or in the fire.
Wood searches for bloom—
whether in the sky
or in the embers’ glow.
Wood branches, flames out—
whether in the ground,
the sky,
or the fire;
whether on the canvas of beholding,
in the leaves,
or within the pages of poetry.
Yet wood never ceases,
for wood is—
essence.
Essence is neither forward motion,
nor growth,
nor orbit,
nor water’s endless cycle.
Essence vibrates without moving,
is ever-changing,
yet never changed.
And in the dimensional eye,
vibration is mistaken for motion,
turning to form—
like a face shifting through a thousand expressions,
like zero unraveling
into infinite angles and numbers.
It seems to reshape,
to renew,
to age,
to perish—
yet it does not move at all.
For it is everything,
and nothing,
at once.
In it, you witness the transfiguration
of all you have ever seen,
thought,
imagined—
and yet,
you see nothing at all.
The moment it seems to be born,
it withers,
seems to die—
but in truth,
it is the still axle of every wave,
motionless, yet the source of all motion,
the silent idol of stone,
yet the wellspring of all movement,
vibrating from the source.
Idolatry was the only true religion—
for it has always been present,
even in its habit of dying.
