Bridge to Serenity

~~ 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.

And the old tree: a weathered sentinel,

stands stripped by seasons’ knife—

his bark a scroll of blizzards scrolled,

yet every branch, a charcoal stroke

carving light from the cold air.

Maples bleed slow fire on snow,

pines mend the wind with needles

of stubborn green...

and there—Manuka, slender-leafed,

both elegant and unyielding,

its tiny blossoms quietly waking,

like stars learning how to shine.

The creek, still fluent in its skin,

whispers over polished stones—

no hurry in its melody,

only the quiet creed of going on.

This is the bridge—

not arch nor span, but how

the scarred wood holds its glow,

how the clouds dissolve

into their own radiance,

how the water knows

without being taught

to carry both light and shadow

all the way home.