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Friday, June 24, 2011

The Mountain

An old man, reclining on his rocking chair facing a mountain,
The one he has known since childhood when he came to
Stay with his grandparents every summer. The one he used to climb
Until reaching the top where earth and clouds form
A furtive space where young men and their lovers
went to tell stories.
“We lived and worked only to live and work the next day”,
The old man thought to himself as the mountain turned blue,
As the sun prepares to depart sweeping away grass and trees
leaving the half-broken fence that used to keep the animals in
And people out.

A mile away from his family farm was the sight of a snowmobile
Accident twenty years ago. Today visitors of the mountain pass by the
A grave which reads “wife and mother, born 1961 to eternity.”
“Like you, mountain of ash, I have not left her side.”
Duy Bui
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