Standing at the grave I smell loss
the crisp Autumn day turned damp
as the fog danced and swirled about
like ghosts of the past encircling.
Grieving relatives rending their garments
wept openly while the children huddled.
Raindrops fell on my shoulders like reminders
constantly tapping and telling me,
“He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone.”
© Rebekka Sanchez 2013