Precipice Poem by Steve Woodward

If I could but love thee as a mountain.
Yet I, not so immovable or so grand
Would crumble
And be stones, swept along the street

If I could but love thee as miles
Of sand beneath your feet
Warm beneath your toes as you tread upon me
And I, the ever patient lover, embrace the echoes of your path

If I could but love thee as smokers ash
Drawn so close to your lips
Only to fall apart at your touch
And wait at our table to be cleaned away with the dishes

If I could love thee as a man
Immovable and grand
But I, in waiting to love thee
Broke down beneath your feet.