They sang of love and hurt and hope to a crowded house and it felt like community and we were alive. I heard a stranger say once that a certain music made him want to smoke and write everything in the world on a single piece of paper and I think he wouldn’t mind my thievery and would even have offered it in advancing approval and appreciation. It was beautiful. The weekend rushed to past in a mug of advancing hours and conversation of good difficulty. Nine gave way to ten and eleven and midnight, and carefully hung a moon full and low that led the road to a new day.
Now returned, this wooden house named for trees brings us diversely in for the same reasons as their music, I think, and I feel a sojourner again gone to a place I know will lead home, will lead always to the people I love and want to love. Mostly I’m believing it's always better to know than to distance, to share rather than hide, to be vulnerable instead of attempting to intrigue with mystery because loving heals and we all want for home.
