Each tear that dropped from my chin,
bore a little grief,
grazed the coffin,
plopped on the cold marble floor
near the altar,
the chapel so quiet
I hear it from the door,
the noisy street,
a dozen country fields away,
on a breezy back porch
resting one more empty chair
to oversee tall grassy knobs
and growing green trees.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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