Poetry

~~ Lyra Fenelle, 16 June 2025

The camera, the pen, the vial of scent, the string, the needle—
all are vessels, but not the source.
They hold a certain stillness, waiting.
But it is we who must arrive fully.

~~ Lyra Fenelle, 22 June 2025

I always said

it was the wind that taught me softness,

the light that taught me patience—

but truly,

it was you.

~~Lyra Fenelle, 26 May 2025

By the rainforest, a steep slope—

wheels crush soggy maple leaves.

An old house hides deep in the woods,

peeling red paint, slanting steps,

smoke curls up from a tin

~~ Lyra Fenelle, 18 June 2025

The winter sun pours liquid gold

through clouds—a shattered geode’s heart:

some shards bloom gossamer amethyst,

some fracture into crystal caves

edged with white-gold flames,

each facet singing silent hymns

to the light that solders seams

between sky and snow,

edges burning with unspeakable fire.

~~ Lyra Fenelle, 16 June 2025

At the bend, the light takes flight,

scattering gold in the falling night.

The path unwinds through rustling shade,

where fractured leaves and silence braid.

— Lyra Fenelle, 07 August 2025

After weeks of waiting,
the parcel arrives—
heavy, larger than expected,
a container of fleeting dreams,
and the silent storehouse of restless craving.

~~ Lyra Fenelle, 21 June 2025

I came to watch the fire—

not for rare dishes, nor for wine,

but for that brief flare

when fresh wood meets flame,

a burst of sparks—

like an old dream quietly blooming

in a kitchen’s shadowed corner.

— The Third Visit to the Hearth

~~Lyra Fenelle, 09 August 2025

Prelude to the Road

Dressed by sunlight’s gentle touch,
Adorned with fragrance’s grace—
Earrings sharp as swords,
Hair straight and neat as pine needles.

~~ Lyra Fenelle, 20 October 2025

Even the cruelest land can bear a golden bloom.
Among thorns that pierce and winds that wither,
Gorse opens its flowers—not for the eyes, but for existence itself.

It does not wait for gentleness.
It knows the world can be harsh, and yet it chooses radiance.
Its yellow petals burn quietly, a sun in miniature,
teaching that hope is not the absence of pain,

~~ Lyra Fenelle, 11 October 2025

A soft green blanket drapes the hillside,
sunlight flickering through each delicate frond,
bright, gentle, alive.

Fingers brush the tender leaves—
feather-light, like a spring wind rippling across still water.
Tiny sparks awaken along the nerves,
a subtle thrill coursing through skin and spirit.