Pinced, Primed, Plumbed

Placed, pressed, peeled—
.
I am the receptacle
of currents and
their containment.
.
On a high plain
The struggle adjourned.
The festivities began without
Libations, without any motion
Or a single sound.

Nixed, known, knelt—
.
I am an altar
of the forest
For the fires
That scour it.
.
In the ashes of trees
The wind reads the discernment
Of an age on a singed page.
.
My root-hands sink deep.
Into my brain of oak flows
A forgotten language.

I am buffeted about
On an ocean of light.
Captured in a cage
By the stars, set free
By the shadow of
Their thoughts.

Pen'd by
@d-pend
11/1/17