Destined to rhyme

I keep our poems together,
carry them hidden
in my canvas pack. Tied by cotton string,
they've grown used to folds

of each other's pages, yours
more worn than my own --
from reading, from being smoothed.
Sometimes by moonlight

I unbind them, scatter all
on a whim, pick one at random,
savor it awhile,
try placing you in my life. After a time

they come together naturally,
snuggle into place, dive deep
into darkness. I get the impression
they don't mind being bound.

Timothy Pilgrim