The Woody Memory of Light

In the fibrous heart, beneath the mute bark,
where time has etched rings and veins,
the wood recalls the air that nourished it,
the blind strength of its dark roots.
It is a silent archive, a hidden map,
of ancient rains, of winds that have bent it.

Then a ray settles, without asking permission,
and reveals the path of every intact fiber,
every knot, every curve, a quiet process
of forms that the light has now intercepted.
It is not just gleam on smooth surface,
but an echo of forest, a whisper that appears.

Thus the matter carries its tale within itself,
and at the touch of every photon, a story unfolds.
Light does not erase, but joins the silent word
of the trunk, which in an instant reveals
its vast past, the shadow of its mystery,
painted upon the board, in a sincere moment.