Mary Oliver and Stumbling Stones

Our family took a hike this fall up the craggy paths of the North Georgia mountains. We knew our end: a precipice overlooking the hills of bronzed and coppered leaves. But there was a long path between us and that view, and it was not a level one. We couldn’t walk in our normal, easy stride with our heads up. Our bodies would take quick, forward lurches as toes came into contact with inlaid stones. Our ankles would tangle with roots. The ground begged that we take notice of it. The rocks stubbed our toes and asked us to consider them.

Poetry is like that.

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