song of the silent

We have reached the end. The wind agrees
and has ceased to blow. Thus my hair no longer
tosses, and you’ve nothing to brush off your
shoulder. But still I see the force of your arm
slyly show itself, your hand reaches for something -
I don’t know what. Flagging down the life
disappearing on the horizon
as it deepens, layers of red, magenta, gold
falling to the night? Or waving good-bye, hope to see you again, until then, fare-well,
or raising a question, begging for the clarification
you know will never come,
or maybe you thought I was turning to go.