Aging Trail Poem by Drew Bailey

When walking on a path,
and you reach the end of the trail,
you look back on what you have seen:

Pebbles, so very common yet so very unique,
able to mesh into a groove in the ground,
and tiny enough to not notice
yet can make pain if found in your shoes;

Stones, able to carve slightly,
small enough to carry in your pocket,
and still so very similar to the rest;

Rocks, small curves formed,
wanted to carry but too large to carry easily,
and just big enough to make a wall to stand tall;

Boulders, curves forming ridges,
adequate to carve a statue from,
and able to crush you with the easiest of ease;

Cliffs, ridges forming valleys,
clouds approaching its peak,
and more ridges splitting its face;

Mountains, valleys forming canyons,
snow and clouds ambush its whole as a white sheet,
and pebbles, stones, rocks, boulders, and cliffs show on this momentous hill.

Memories between each
pebble, stone, rock, boulder, cliff, and mountain.