The Enamel of Time

On the wood of a handle that waits,
where fingertip oil has left
a shining veil, the subtle writing,
of every departure, each return to the thread.

It is not gold that adorns, nor rust that breaks,
but a luster woven by patient practice,
echo of a replicated gesture, of a light weight,
that sinks into the fiber, its discreet time.

Thus the enamel is born, not from an ardent fire,
but from human warmth, slow and recurring.
History is not engraved, but in that smoothness rests,
the signature of who held it, a silent caress.