PILLAR of the standing wood, upholding the gilded roof. He appeareth as one great trunk risen plumb at the bend of the path, his bark deep-grooved and warm, the whole forest about him gone to amber so that he seems a pillar in a hall lit by its own ceiling. His office is the office of every column: to bear up, to stand true, and to be passed by travelers who lean a hand against him without once looking up. The boulder at his foot has kept him company for a century of seasons. The gilded light comes down to him broken into pieces, and he wears the pieces all day without complaint, being too old to chase the sun.
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