The Night Sigh of the Parquet

When daylight dips and the fresh air descends,
the old wood falls quiet, then softly sighs.
In the hush where the dwelling had slept,
each grain extends and withdraws its might.
It’s a muffled lament, scarcely heard by ear,
of resins that time could not subdue.

Not the echo of footfalls, nor a whisper low,
but its inner harmony, pure and slow.
A tiny lament, a delicate stream,
of fibers that through the dark dream
the shapes of the dawn’s gentle heat,
in their mysterious passage, bittersweet.

And the listening soul, watchful and slight,
learns within that whisper its own guiding light.
An inner presence that gently ascends,
in the mute alphabet where silence transcends.
The wooden heart beats, both old and so brief,
beneath the white moon, so bright and so deep.