Memory Stain

Trace a finger along
the wooden railing,
trailing the grain.

Beneath the varnish
and sanded surface,
beneath what human
hands have shaped,
is the memory of life.

The old spruce is there,
of course, but also found
soaked into its pores
are the oils of thousands
who have gripped tight.

You find this elsewhere,
in pillows slept upon
or the patina of jewelry,
the ghosts of the past
lingering on, hidden.

I run my hands over
the hewn banister,
feeling its history.

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