Lifelines

Your hands so small in mine.
our lace of lines
each telling separate stories
yet here we are,
after all the falls and scrapes,
after every crease is unfolded
our paths so surely crossed and joined.
You looked into my palm and wondered,
This line?
Was it a scar?

What if?
Memories like seeds,
given proper conditions
temperature, light, moisture
a nudge,
emerge and stretch
reaching as before
to flower, fruit and seed
once more.

What if?
Memories, like footprints,
wandering tracks
establish paths
that carry across time’s great divide.

What if?
Action and reaction
are recorded,
stored and filed,
whole complex strings,
suites, even symphonies of whorled lines
attached to us as surely
as the curve of brow,
the angle of a smile,
as clear as the lines writ upon our hands.