The Lines

From a post of Carole Roseland about lines on her face. The mixing in of metaphor becomes very blended here.

I'm going to end the month of February with a poem on each of these last four days. Out with a bang.

                        The Lines

        A good poem should behave
            like something beautiful,
                every time it rolls in,
        the way gleaming foam does.
            After it recedes it leaves
            a gift shining in the sand,
                     and it does so
                  wave after wave,
               no matter how long
              since you last read it,
            more stunning in beauty
                       each time.

          While the lines before you
           have remained the same,
                   yours have not.
                 From visit to visit
           they increase in number
       and depth, to better measure
                the gift before you,
           before you can no longer 
                   walk the beach
      but only murmur the best parts
                    from memory,
               when the lines form
                      more of you
             than the unlined parts.