Yoga Poetry – The Bridge
White Bridge - John H. Twachtman
The bridge is made of weather. The bridge is made of time.
Translucent, the color of water, it spans the world in sharp relief
to lushness of green, western edge of blue, rain shadow in between.
Five miles north, the cedars drink up the storm while the sky inhales
old starlight, already dead when it lands, for rock and root,
bowed thunderhead and nightfall, velocity and cricket song.
The bridge is a slim path between dusk and longing, a wide swath
from sleep to starlight, an arm of weather linking here and there,
telling us that reality is always round, circling everything back.
The first lilt of lullaby, and beforehand, the roar of the bloodstream,
the steady clip of your mother’s heart above where your own forms,
the tumble and turmoil out, ready or not, to the sharp light of birth.
The bridge arches itself past endings, showing us love is a wheel
that already knows what we learn: nothing is safe in this world
except change, courage, and the willingness to cross over.