The Master’s Graft

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The Master’s Graft

In Sequoia’s cathedral, deep and still,
A different architecture takes its fill.
Where six o'clock May light begins to steep
The creamy shadows where the giants sleep,
Not seed, nor sapling, starts its climb
From rocky ground and iron-rich loam,
But hollow body, sharp in time,
A bold defiance finding home.

Roots, dark and defined, not gentle things,
Push through the stone where music springs.
They grasp the base where strap should cling,
Anchoring the heart where the first note sings.
A luthier’s ghost in copper and trace
Melds with the rough-barked, ancient space,
Twin supports from the bridge now bind
The precision core and mountain mind.

From fretboard’s edge, where fingers roam,
Living branches rise to greet the dome
Of sky and needle, structured green,
A vibrant arch, a sight unseen.
It is the old heart, knowing and deep,
Of masters who woke the wood from sleep,
Woven with the stark and high-definition beat
Of modern craft, precise and sweet.

The forest whispers, soft and near,
Against the sharpness standing clear.
The wind, an invisible, somatic hand,
Sweeps the strings above the land.
They barely vibrate, a quiet release,
Played by the Earth’s own breath in peace.
A melding of pulse and static fire,
Both beautiful and intense desire
To simply be, rooted and sound,
The first electric, holy ground.