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.”