not all lines converge

though a fruit is a poem unto itself

beauty forming out of the silence

finding its voice at last

there may be silent strings

who knows where they are leading

or if we are pulling

to fires

or into valleys

shadows can be deceiving

not all lines converge

ten year wound approximating

tenure of my tears

bookends of the universe

sudden reflection in the mirror

to see what always was

and wonder if you are near

not all lines converge

but at last we find ourselves

where we always were

with eyes wiser

skin loved by the sun

souls wide open

or wrinkled with fear

let this be a good year

for casting lines and drawing in the moon

not all lines converge

but one day soon

they will

be it on a Monday 

or a day with rain and gazing 

from storm to window sill

with eyes open to the world 

and warm glowing fires

where books are stars in the night sky

waiting to be deciphered 

by lovers hands tracing lines that converge to

where we are

just you and I