I take the small chair and place it next to the stove,
every morning I sit and wait for the coffee to be done.
He says, when he wakes, that his first cup is the aroma in my hair.
I take the wet grinds out to the lemon tree.
I break them up with an old spoon and imbed them around the roots.
There is no one anymore to smell my hair in the morning.
I still sit in my wooden chair waiting for the coffee to be done,
tears drying on my cheeks from the heat on the stove.