And in the midst of the forest, you find this,
a bridge, vaguely Japanese,
gracefully arched over the creek,
a bit of art in the midst of rough-hewn nature.
A part of you is reverent.
Aware of the conscious peace
deliberately created and places
among the walls of stone, a bridge
from one world to another.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps from one world
to the same. There is no way to know,
other than to walk, to cross, and see.
About this poem.
Certain times, or experiences, or people serve as bridges in our life, sometimes taking us to someplace new, sometimes taking us further in the world we are already in. Only the crossing tells us which. There is a small Japanese garden in the midst of the park where I love to go, sit, and meditate.
The picture was taken at one of our local state parks, maybe 45 minutes from my house in West Pawlet, VT.