The Silent Breath of the Bark

Not stretched skin, nor crimson rust,
but another memory of woven fiber.
The bark neither moans, nor cries, nor coughs,
yet in the wood holds its hidden vigils.
A silent tremor, slow and deep,
that brings the sap from the roots.
An invisible rite that changes the world
in the shadow that grows, in the green that escorts.

It is the echo of a time that has no voice,
the ancient shiver of a passing wind.
The quietude that wraps every early leaf,
the slow rhythm of a tree since born.
It knows neither horizon, nor dream’s lament,
but only of its space, of its staying still.
A mute tale, without any pledge,
of days and nights, of forever lasting.

Beneath its garment of rough weave,
marks are etched: seasons, wounds.
Every deep fold, a silent flame
that whispers of its written growth.
She has no words, nor gaze, nor taste,
but feels the sap, the warmth of the sun.
And wraps her heart, a keeper and robust,
in the oldest veil that ever unravels.