I weave through verdant labyrinths, a silent, wooden thread,

A divining rod for mysteries the whispering forest has bred.

Though I bear no compass, my touch ignites a primal guide,

A forgotten language, where earth and soul confide.

I am a phantom limb, an extension of weary might,

A bridge across the chasm, between darkness and light.

My whispers etch stories on the ephemeral canvas of dust,

Chronicles of triumph, etched in the traveler's trust.

What am I?