Correction Line

Lines are made for absolutes,
The absolutest of the shortest routes.
The here we make this mine
And then there yours calls for a line.

But here’s a hitch; we’re wearing an equator.
And when you go to write down on a table
All the boundaries you’re able
You’ll note the problems of Mercator.

You’ll struggle keeping lines within their place.
And any way you try to trace
The longitudinals, they come to meet.
So how to draw that on a sheet?

Convergence of what’s meant to stay apart;
Anathema to the cartographer’s heart.
(And now we’ve found our terra is tectonic,
So there goes any hope to stay Platonic)

Oh, we can get by these deficiencies
With just a few line-surveyor decrees:
When the line gets too off base,
Steer it with another into place.

Reminds me of a recent physics article:
Just as a line corrects a line
(Along with publishing a new roadsign)
So can a particle a particle.

Love

Love landed like a butterfly.
Lit upon my hand out of the sky
And only I thought it would stay.
But butterflies are hard to please,
They fly on just the slightest breeze.
To never leave but get away,
This is the lepidopteran charm.
So now I search the air and stand
Waiting with an outstretched arm,
And open hand.