Winter Solstice and Musings On The Entropy of Love

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.