Walking in the Smoky Mountains one muggy afternoon, something came to me as we trudged on the path, looking at the stones. Suddenly I felt inspired to write a poem again. I got into poetry in the 90s during college. Most of them were awful. Then I found my voice, and they were, well, maybe not publishable, but not so awful.
After walking that day, I felt inspired to write something poem-like for the first time in about a decade. So I jotted it down on a piece of hotel paper. Only I don't know what to do with it, and I don't know exactly what it means, and it's not even that poem-like. So I thought I'd share it here:
This is the moment that I knew.
Walking down a dusty, winding trail that seemed unending,
I looked down to the ground and saw stones.
And no matter how I looked, I saw the shapes of hearts in them.
Some were rounded to perfection, the way a heart should look.
"I will call her perfect," my daughter said, slipping the pebble into her pocket.
But others had more jagged edges;
were lopsided, not smoothly formed.
I did not pick them up but padded over them and smiled,
looking on to the clearing, the way out of all the trees.