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.