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Your last in our midst
Was a very heavy day.
A tin sign, soon to be orphaned,
Slapped at an urgent wind,
Giving it an eerie voice as it rumbled through.
Furiously pitching razored tumbleweeds aside,
It hurled a foreboding in horrified faces.
Hoping for pardon
We sat blind staring,
We paced new ruts in the floor and retraced them,
Talking in dead whispers,
Trying not to and waiting to cry.
There could be no stillness as the howling air,
Against the dolorous box
Which held us together one last time,
Breathed.
And this was the time chosen
For the box to be ripped open,
When a locomotive wind would carry you away
In its sand-laden wake.
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Love is Still Young
