Departure

for Ryan Harmon

The Whistler has left the building –
With his aviator stare
and Eighties flare.

So is this what it is to mourn the living –
From summer glare
to winter wear.

The coldness of leaving.

This is the dawn folded into night –
Your then to now
in final bow.

As the farmer moves in plight –
Pulling ground
by the plough,

passing out of sight.

Held by the color of a winsome life –
“Goodbye,”
we sigh.

Caught within all that’s rife –
A cloudless sky
gone awry –

Departure causing inner strife.