Eternal Mountain

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a cry to the mountains, the birthplace of many generations of my family.

Submitted: March 19, 2007

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Submitted: March 19, 2007





© 2005 Wanda L. Harrell


The eternal mountain, a massive mound of rock and soil, a bold rebel against the earth's flat ways,

Secretly entices me in quiet tongued bids to visit the eternal homestead, to discover remnants of bygone days.

O' mountain, I am here to pay my respects to you and all the ancestors who lived before me,

To clearly see and breathe in your brisk, pine scented air, as once did my long gone family.


It's been many years since any of those departed souls trudged up your mountain incline,

So I question, "O', majestic mountain beneath my feet, do you remember me and mine?"

In the distance, I glimpse the remains of a house, a skeleton that was once my ancestral home.

Quickly picking up my step, I rush forward to the past, to reflect and ramble about, all alone.


There, battered and crippled from neglect and lack of life, stand sick and declining wooden walls;

Those wearied, aged gray remains have ceased their ancient struggle to stand strong and tall.

Saddened at the front entry, there is no knob to turn because there is no longer a front door;

I respectfully enter the structure's gaping wound, leaving my footsteps across the dusty floor.


The last living visitors creep through broken windowpanes to only languish in unkempt gloom,

The vines, dried and tangled, and their brown, dead leaves scattered about in the empty room.

I secretly yearn for the barren walls to softly caress me, to warmly welcome me back home,

But realize the human ability to extend a welcome hug vanished with the people, people long gone.


The fireplaces, the place to prepare meals and where ancestors received body-warming heat,

Are empty of wood and fiery blaze; some of the once sturdy bricks lay in a crumbled heap.

A kitchen trough, made of mortar and stone, is void of crystal clear water from the mountain's spring,

And no perishable foods are immersed in its icy cold bath, for the water is no longer flowing.

The back porch is devoid of the ancestors who, when telling their tall tales, sat there in cane-bottomed chairs.

The staircase rail wobbles, trembling from years of wear, yet helps my unsteady steps up the stairs.

The bedroom walls silently sob, aching for people to rest and sleep, but the rooms are abandoned and empty;

There's not even a single prayer floating to the heavens from children at bedside on bended knee.


From the window, I once again gaze on the beckoning mountainside, but the view is distorted with aged grime.

With tear stained cheeks, I leave and walk back outside, thinking about people and long ago times.

Things seen and felt through my soul tell me of the house's future; its swiftly imminent doom,

The progressive decay and final demise of the dusty floors and failing walls of each and every room.


But unlike the things made by man, the eternal mountain will continue to be, wearing a crown of trees,

Providing a lasting home for life to live: wild flowers, deer, bears, mountain lions, birds, butterflies and bees.

The eternal mountain shall continue to thrive, rejoicing in strength, remaining throughout time,

So, I question the mountain one more time, "O, majestic mountain, will you remember me and mine?"


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