You two are​

ends,

a timeline

that stretches and relaxes

in turn,

​

one beginning the game,

the other nearing completion.

​

Between you lies

a life-line

spun from blood ties,

double-threaded 

friends,

​

which you keep properly 

patterned.

​

The rest of us see

the sounds

of threads recoiling.

​

We dance on your lines

above, below, on them;

we find the loose ends

twisting, snagging, falling.

​

but you

own the threads,

yourself.

Ever-merry babbling

laughter

from spring to autumn

ceaselessly titters.

​

Little by little

winter's frozen touch

catches your

tears of joy

to build a wall

of silence.

​

Laughter muted

still laughs behind

the thick sheet

of silence.

The words here and now

needles in a haystack

that we are afraid

that will sting us.

​