Trees, Veins Through the Invisible

It hurts doesn't it? Now it is that love is shown to have edges, threadbare places, haphazard tears through which any cold wind seems to blow. All wisdom worth anything though ends with a hymn to love. So this tattered thing somehow is wrapped around our redemption, like a shirt on a warm body. Redemption, I am coming to learn, rarely is easy and never a thing to simply watch. We are bound into it whether we like it or not. So you sit, in a tense and lonely marriage, and wonder if the crickets sing for anyone at all. Love seems far off, hope remote, faith stronger in the certainty of death than in the presence of life, freedom. I have been there. The feeling most hits me on certain nights when I feel like though I have said a lot of words I haven't actually spoken to anyone. Though I laughed, my heart didn't leap as it should have, and I sit and wonder and feel bad, maybe even hate myself, making myself feel guilt for loneliness. There are other nights though, when the moon is silver and the trees are dark against a dark sky. When the wind blows lightly and the grass, a silver moonrobed choir. These are the nights when love seems. When words are touch and something is singing to me, somewhere.