Where the lake holds the sky

There are places
so beautiful
they stop time.

And she has seen them—
those glacial mirrors
cradled by stone giants,
turquoise and endless,
as if the sky itself
lowered its mouth
to drink from the earth
and stayed.

The lake does not roar.
It does not rise
or rage.
Its power is in its patience.
Its clarity.
Its fathomless depth.

She kneels beside it
as if before a holy thing.
Because it is.
Because water like this
doesn’t just reflect the world—
it remembers it.

The ache of retreating ice.
The thunder of falling rock.
The hush of snowfall
blanketing everything in forgiveness.

This lake—
this luminous, silent witness—
asks nothing of her
except to see.
To be still enough
to hear its hush.
To let her breath slow
until it matches
the rhythm of the ripples.
To feel her own depths
called forward
by something
deeper still.

She has cried here.
Laughed here.
Come undone here.
And always,
the lake remained.
Unshaken.
Unmoved.
Unbelievably beautiful.

As if beauty,
true beauty,
was never meant to be loud—
only endless.