Beyond the oak

https://www.facebook.com/651148709/posts/10155329227868710/

I’m sat on the front porch,
facing East,
staring at the sycamore;
Your morning coffee
is nestled in its armrest,
still and tepid,
its aroma dead since seven;
The circada’s song dances
on the late summer breeze
through the house,
out the sun-spilled backdoor,
where you liked to see off
the orange teardrop as it
rolled off the face of God,
somewhere beyond
Appalachia, departed
for the Ozarks,
leaving me the
unbearable
oppressive dark,
and crickets
who fiddle in celebratory
tones,
above your casket,
out somewhere beyond
the oak.

Reviews

[Gee]

A beautifully written piece Maxwell, sad, descriptive and will resonate with those that have lost loved ones.
Top writing

[Samuel Dickens]

Yikes. I was enjoying the descriptions, at first thinking she'd just gone off to work or something, but then came the word "casket". All the warmth and love turned to cold death. This is very effective writing.

[Maxwell Ryder]

Samuel, thank you. This piece was fun to write, though the subject went sad in the ends.