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Ghosts 

Your voice is solid silver
and it shines and draws me in.

I remember
numb toes
wood stove
crackling logs
canvas tent
hot dogs in tortillas
home-brewed beer
frozen night
with a storm outside.

We kept ourselves alive
telling stories,
poems,
fighting off the cold and the dark
with our light,
as if by casting our voices
into the unfeeling wilderness
we could make ourselves a home.

But even your shining voice
will be swallowed by the mountain.
You will blow away now,
like ashes from a campfire,
and the years will bury your memory
like snow.

I hope you remember me.

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Amy Fontaine

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