age
an old man stands beside an
aged tripod;
years, gripping its feet
and tripping the camera
perched on its top.
“do you love me?”
the man asks the mountains.
silence;
peaks dripped in snowflakes,
blue shadows and sun-kissed trees,
leaves - fallen.
he smiles, and takes the picture.
in an old scrawl on the back
of the sepia tones,
“forever.”
the white flowers
perched on polished chestnut
whisper to the autumn leaves.
at long last
in those mountains
his words and sepia tones
will rest.
a voice, loved by time,
“home.”
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