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Poem

Unable to sleep or pray, I stand  
by the window looking out—  
at moonstruck trees a December storm  
has bowed with ice.

White Oaks and Maples concede  
beneath the crystalline weight,  
their branches falling brittle upon  
a frozen tableau of memory.

Love—that old revolutionary road,  
veers sideways toward scrutiny;  
where I've wandered, reliving moments  
at the long junction of unease.

But make no mistake—  
The trees themselves, as in winters past  
will endure their burdening; broken thrive. 
Am I less to You, my God, than they?

What does this have to do with love?  
I shatter a mirror just to glimpse  
the shifting umbra that lurks behind,  
searching for the source of wholeness.

I hear it—the mutability of love in stead,  
its voice, cutting a swath through leavings;  
worn, blessed, shaped by earth  
while rising out of what was lost.

I pull thread by thread, at memories lost,
as if to weave them back together;  
but each attempt reveals the tear  
in every promise once coveted.

Is love then, nothing but a gap—  
a space we fill with longing,  
a promiscuous fire lost in the cold  
leaving us searching for its light?

The trees, staunch, their silence deep,  
and in their forboding, I see more  
than in the frantic rush of hearts—  
they bend and splinter yet carry forth.

Love is not the comfort we expect,  
rather the oscillating tension  
that reveals even in ruination, there  
is life's will stirring in the dark.

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