Roads of dirt, and of pavement,
fences of split rail, and of barbed wire,
lengths of time, linked together in chains;
we move along them,
now racing, now clinging-
each of us under the same sun,
each of us with the same heart;
we stand in our own clearings,
build our own altars,
and send up our own prayers
that drift into the sky;

even though

we sit under the same tree,
ears crushed by the same thunder,
held by the same embrace of the morning,
laying flowers on the same grave,
and folding the same hands-
some smooth as alabaster, some rough as rawhide.

And sometimes,
sometimes,
the web converges,
sometimes I meet you,
sometimes the rhythm aligns,
the tide goes out, taking our footprints,
the shadows collapse, light breaks over the horizon.

Sometimes,
you rest your head on my shoulder,
and I rest mine on yours.