Georgia Stafford
Ridges
To be with us is not to step along our peaks like stones in a stream, child.
But that is very creative of you.
We are not purple mounds against a cobalt construction paper sky, dwarfed by your giant family on a day trip—
holding hands like cutout dolls.
We do not begin and end as pedestals.
You must start at my feet, and cross several black moss brooks that wind like tears down my overgrown face.
Relish the shelter the forest provides.
Pay attention.
It chirps, and is fresh, and sunlight filters in through the oak and birch canopies.
In the open air,
You must grip steep stretches of bare granite with your fingers and toes, because although you are welcome here,
I was not built to lift you easily
into the thin blue wind.
You used to dream of being a gray squirrel so you could play on the dripping
wind chime branches of the willow tree, and watch over the sea
from the property’s highest point,
But the boughs would buckle underneath your weight.
You used to dream of being a pigeon that perches on the steeple and surveys the town
until a gust blows you to wing,
But you were not born with wings.
You were born with the passion for ascent.
When you reach my peak,
you will know how small you are.
You will look down and see the lake
like a puddle of silver glass nestled in a great lawn.
You will understand that I am deeper than a skyline.
I am older than the view from your backyard.
You will feel the sweat drying on your face
and feel pride for your legs.
Lungs.
Eyes.
I am earth’s tower,
and if you scale me
I will let you see everything.
Georgia Stafford is a 19 year old cheese lover from New Hampshire. She studies Jazz Voice at Oberlin Conservatory.