A12 Jar Poem by Bill Smith
A12 Jar
Her last request, strange, nay odd
For one about to meet her God
An empty jar, crystal clear
For fifty summers loved, held dear
No one knew, she’d never say
What it held until this day
Over her coffin with a fumbled twist
A lip blown kiss falls to warm cold lips
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
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4/26/2024 5:27:55 AM # 1.0.0.1119
