Here, at Ribbon’s End (June 3, 2000)
Ancient Chinese Legend
When children are young, gods tie an invisible red string over the ankles of the couple who are supposed to wed later. As the years go by, the string becomes shorter and shorter until the couple are united. Nothing in this world can sever the string, "not distance, changing circumstances, or love, Marriage is their destiny."
I.
At times it tugged me
across the Gulf of Mexico,
where the sea and the sky
rest upon each other
like tired old friends.
Where the sun’s stern
gaze falls on unwary
skin, where white sandy
plains and salty shores
foster unspoken solace
and unexplained longing.
Here, I most felt its pull,
an unrecognized reeling
like a fish’s revenge
hooking me quickly
pulling thoughts of hope
along an invisible wire
leading out past the islands,
into an unknowable depth
seemingly, improbably,
north by northwest.
II.
One hefty length of twine
crossing nine states,
bisecting time zones,
cross-hatching
the continental divide,
meandering its way north,
south, west, and east,
zig-zagging across
two decades, exploring
new geological formations,
Northwest college dorm rooms,
scattered Albanian streets,
Himalayan back alleys,
Alaskan moose runs,
and Colorado mountain towns
to hang without burden
around her delicate ankle.
Our cord, bending again
winds taut near the station
as locomotives huff smoke
up Rainier’s nose
before chugging on down
the boxcar line
to all stops southeast.
III.
With divine navigation
the Captain, our captain
plots the course and
tightens our net…
Instead of AT&T
transatlantic cable,
our lines dwindle
to mere strings of yarn
connecting styrofoam cups.
Our simple bond is born
in the first fleeting glimpse,
a brown-eyed waltz
of three seconds,
without music, rhythm,
steps or foreknowledge
we link like seasoned
companions, twinkle-toeing
into a geographical
conundrum, chatting
over a couch’s chasm,
slipping our sentiments
along the high-wire
balancing between us,
the desperation calls
from Cracker Barrels,
international airports,
and post-Colonial
north Indian cosmopolitans.
IV.
And still the string
never snaps, but weaves
a stronger strand
in the closeness,
a crocheted moment
in Captiva kayaks,
a carefully stitched
plot to love the world,
a quilt of memories
spread out in multi-color
hues, piecing together
what is me,
with what is she.
In mingled laughter,
invaluable smiles, and
extraterrestrial patience
we are tethered in bliss,
locked in a soft kiss,
caught in a silence
so heavenly it glows…
where once dwelt a longing,
the remembered thought
quickly forgotten,
now dwells a Oneness,
an embrace within the knot
Yahweh tied off
at ribbon’s end.
yeti speak... 
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