And what is love? And what if we got love all wrong? What would have been wrong about the getting.
To think of it as an achievement. A puzzle. Or something that solves something else. There’s some error.
What’s to puzzle? A thing that’s always around and mostly ignored. That’s a puzzle.
How is it always around? It gives color and light to what we see, and it may be our seeing that gives color and light back to what it is.
And to paint is to love because there is only action. There is no plotting to get a feeling onto a surface.
And lighting a room is a love in the same way. There is a glow of golden sunset doing it for you if you wait. Why tinker with electricity, bulbs, cans, reflectors and chandeliers. The sun comes when it comes.
The dust on the horizon, marries with the sun and the room bursts forth as the glory it’s always been.
And love is a mistake in the rendering of beauty. It’s van Gogh getting a color wrong. The lack of perfection in a lizard without a tail. A judging of a death as a death at the wrong time. A judging of ending when the ending is warranted.
All of it is love. A red ribbon across a desk. A man who fashioned the blades on my pencil sharpener. He’s not here, but boy does he have staying power.
To love the shape of a tree. The outer, but also the sap that’s pulsing through it.
To want the sky to be another way for a time ahead with someone near you.
To desire a high mountain lake of piercing blue. For different birds than the ones here.
A pumping beat of crows wings here across my sky now. Nothing to solve. Just a dusty blue and pink across a morning expanse, cradled slightly by green growth below.
Love comes again and again. Like more pumping crow wings and more bubbling blades of grass all along the edges of the trail.
What it is must not be thought of – only sensed.