Thrasher's Call

The hardest thing to do in love is fall: to drop your guards, to raze your keep and walls, and trust the other’s arms will stretch to reach you, and so disarm your shields and weapons all.

The hardest foe to kill in love is “each”: that singular combatant, heart-hard breach of trust. Its axe strikes deep at roots that bind, and in the strike, cuts grooves that shrink from reach.

What then? The tree long bears the cut in mind, long after axes drop. Will each unwind, unweave, unbind, unmake what God has wrought? Can knots and grooves and roots be re-entwined?