The Unbreakable Diary of Wood

The smooth plane, carved by time and its womb,
holds a silent archive, without ink or word.
Not etched grooves, but a barely perceptible sense,
the invisible history of every touch that brushes it.
A wave of pressure, a fleeting warmth,
leave light imprints, a breath without sound.

It remembers the slow weight of the book, the boiling cup,
the distracted caress of the hand, the dull fist of a cry.
It feels the echo of fingers that dance or tremble,
the trace of an elbow weary, the rustle of a whispering secret.
Every object placed, every life that bends to it,
writes on its fiber a page that cannot deny itself.

Inert witness to dinners, fights and hurried kisses,
it keeps the weave of gestures, the soul of who used it.
A deep diary, beneath the varnish and its layers,
where the world rests and is never fully erased.
Silent oak, or pine, or beech, now relocated,
continues to live the experience, never completely isolated.