You are the plank.
You are an even-hewn and sanded length
that reaches end to end, your hand upon
my temperamental arc.
You are diameter aimed clean
into the heart of me.
I turn as on a spit of steel
(your steel)
except that
I am flame and meat at once the same.
You are the planet firm in heaven’s sea,
and I the tempest-tossing test
of earth’s humanity.
You are the moon.
I am the tides that pout and turn and then return
in love’s remembered ache.
You are the balance
and I am
the dance.
Pam Goode
Pam Goode Writes 