Hinge-Bound

"Scissors," never "scissor," 

my mother would say to me.

For halves are born as partners,

and partners meant to be.

Two spirits yoked in metal, 

in duty intertwined.

Their covenant unbroken,

their purpose unified.

The blades would cross like lovers

too fevered to unwind, 

yet cold as winter's chapel,

and sharp as fate's design.

And though their kiss is cutting,

their unity is whole.

Some things are always plural,

like hearts that share a soul.