The Arcs of God

These thinned, gossamer threads
Of time, flesh, existence, essence
Are what gifts we have from Hands
Which give, and give, yet never change.

They are lines. Gently they curve.
Space is their element, hope their breath.
They are strung from the stars of heaven.
They drape with the grace of beauty.

These soft arcs, yours and mine,
Are for each other close,
And seem by those same Hands
Meet for some congruence.

And touching once they part, tangential.
Space and time and dreams shall move between.