Eleven lives, eleven calendars,
Eleven journeys carefully aligned
Eleven minds all eager to confer
And write eleven tales newly assigned.

For seven days eleven sowed the field
With blessed solitude and conversation-
Our House of Our Own then began to yield
The signs of universal germination.

O meadow of ideas in full bloom
Cross-pollinated in lush summertime
Bear fruits that nourish us when they’re consumed
And leaven the eleven in their prime.

Eleven, do not weep that we are scattered;
Improbable convergence is what mattered.