The path emerged, in fall—midday,
leading left from foot-worn trails.
It bore a warning—walk one way—
granting time to turn away,
back through scented sagebrush hills.
Always curious—some say bold—
I took the path, began to climb.
Sage to rock turned gray and cold,
daring me to scale, grab hold
the canyon walls of sand and lime.
The path was merely one shoe wide,
steep and still—no turning back.
And as I wandered deep inside
I slipped, and struggled with my pride,
and reached for safety in the cracks,
until the stone was bleached and pale,
and steps began to blend with sky.
Now the walls were smooth; a veil
of time and wind and life’s travails
had polished them, and so would I.
At the crest, I paused to mind
my footing on the vaulted ground.
The ocean view was worth the climb.
And in my life—led by divine—
no better path can I have found.