Age Abides

By Susan Jeffers

The widows in my ward,
faced with
cloud computing,
BluRay players,
delegate their devices to me.
“I’m sure you know more about all this,” they say.

Here is what they mean:

In Japan, there is a mountain,
once a volcano,
now white-capped,
Every spring, the cherry trees burst into being.
Every spring, the winds scatter their petals—
soft litter for the mountain’s feet.
They fade
and return
and fade again.
But the mountain


About Susan Jeffers

Susan Jeffers received her B.A. in English from BYU and her M.A. in English from Abilene Christian University. She spends her time writing and teaching in southern Maryland with her husband, their little boy, and a succession of ill-tempered betta fish.

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