Inscription
"Loss leaves the densest wood"
The Wound
The storm is memory now. The branch it tore away exists only as knot – dark whorl where grain refused to give. You live long enough to forget there was ever a rupture. Then spring. Sap rises, meets resistance. The flow stops as the grain spirals, compressed. You've carried this knot so long you've forgotten which ring is wood, which is wound. Does the trunk hold the knot, or does the knot hold the trunk?
The Path
You measure the refusal that's hardened into rings. First instinct: force the grain true and keep the surface flat. But the knot is compressed wood. It does not yield. Refuse to curve around memory and you create a fracture line. The first strong wind snaps you exactly where you refused to bend. Second instinct: twist toward the wound. Starve your crown to feed the scar. Refuse new rings for fear of covering the evidence. You grow another ring. And another. Ring by ring, you thicken around it, until the knot that once was everything becomes a dark whorl near the centre. The knot endures – dense as stone, unchanged. Press your palm to it. Warm. The wound is the mark of the reaching.
The Shadow
A trunk must be willing to let the wound become one ring amongst many. But the shadows refuse to let the wound recede. The Gnarled Heart feeds the wound all his sap. He twists his growth to ensure the scar is the first thing visitors see. He cannot bear a compliment on his leaves. Yes, he says, but look where I broke. But a trunk twisted to showcase its wound creates structural stress. When the storm returns, the wood splits along the curve he spent years perfecting. ⧫ The Hollow Trunk grows for the surface, not the core. She treats the storm as blemish, something to cover quickly. She forces her growth straight, laying ring over ring so thin they barely hold. She avoids deep soil. Keeps her roots shallow. That was long ago, she says. And the wood has closed. One spring, a child carves initials into her bark. The knife slips past the surface and finds – nothing. The blade moves through air where heartwood should be, and she feels the hollow she denied, suddenly open to the sky. She grows upwards anyway, trusting her smooth exterior, until the canopy becomes too heavy for the emptiness she refused to fill. In the cross-section, after she falls: the knot at the centre, untouched, mocking the thinness of the rings that tried to pretend it wasn't there.
The Cut
When did the knot become the whole tree?
INSCRIPTION
Loss leaves the densest wood
Inscription
"Loss leaves the densest wood"
The Wound
The storm is memory now. The branch it tore away exists only as knot – dark whorl where grain refused to give. You live long enough to forget there was ever a rupture. Then spring. Sap rises, meets resistance. The flow stops as the grain spirals, compressed. You've carried this knot so long you've forgotten which ring is wood, which is wound. Does the trunk hold the knot, or does the knot hold the trunk?
The Path
You measure the refusal that's hardened into rings. First instinct: force the grain true and keep the surface flat. But the knot is compressed wood. It does not yield. Refuse to curve around memory and you create a fracture line. The first strong wind snaps you exactly where you refused to bend. Second instinct: twist toward the wound. Starve your crown to feed the scar. Refuse new rings for fear of covering the evidence. You grow another ring. And another. Ring by ring, you thicken around it, until the knot that once was everything becomes a dark whorl near the centre. The knot endures – dense as stone, unchanged. Press your palm to it. Warm. The wound is the mark of the reaching.
The Shadow
A trunk must be willing to let the wound become one ring amongst many. But the shadows refuse to let the wound recede. The Gnarled Heart feeds the wound all his sap. He twists his growth to ensure the scar is the first thing visitors see. He cannot bear a compliment on his leaves. Yes, he says, but look where I broke. But a trunk twisted to showcase its wound creates structural stress. When the storm returns, the wood splits along the curve he spent years perfecting. ⧫ The Hollow Trunk grows for the surface, not the core. She treats the storm as blemish, something to cover quickly. She forces her growth straight, laying ring over ring so thin they barely hold. She avoids deep soil. Keeps her roots shallow. That was long ago, she says. And the wood has closed. One spring, a child carves initials into her bark. The knife slips past the surface and finds – nothing. The blade moves through air where heartwood should be, and she feels the hollow she denied, suddenly open to the sky. She grows upwards anyway, trusting her smooth exterior, until the canopy becomes too heavy for the emptiness she refused to fill. In the cross-section, after she falls: the knot at the centre, untouched, mocking the thinness of the rings that tried to pretend it wasn't there.
The Cut
When did the knot become the whole tree?