The Dresser's Mark

It stood against the wall, a dark, heavy mass,

that dresser from my grandmother's past.

I meant to sweep beneath, to clear the dust,

a simple chore, a moment of mistrust

in its old, solid, stubborn grace.

I pushed, it groaned, refused to leave its place.

Then, a sharp tear, a sudden, searing bite,

my shin against its corner, day turned night

for a split second. A splinter, deep and grim.

It had its say, right to the ancient rim

of wood, where gouges told of lives before,

and now, another scratch, and something more.

My blood bloomed, dark against the polished wood,

a fresh red mark, misunderstood.

Not just a piece of furniture, it seemed,

but a guardian, holding tight to what it dreamed

of staying put. And me, just part of its old story,

another ache, another kind of glory.