Departed

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
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.