Fabric

We are each the fine end point 
of not just one but many lines.
Not just two, but,
four, eight, sixteen,
thirty-two ply and more.
We are each a skein of threads,
our needle poised over the land
which lies like fabric inert
but is its own end point too—

the latest in a long line of mountains,
valley, daughter of all valleys
that lay down before her,
river ever running,
knot of trees weaving a thread 
in and out since 
cloth first broke ground—
and in our every foot’s step 
the two points meeting,
pressing together, seaming 
our every life streaming 
behind us.