Departure Delayed

These penultimate moments,
The waiting of the hunting
Just before the chasing dogs
Denude the target
For the shooting
That keeps most people from hunting,
The sitting under the tree
Waiting for the apples to gravitate
To a point not quite seen yet,
Tend to coalesce into an impatient
Counting down of immeasurable days.
The crash and burn of those days,
Just fracturing the night
Into fragments that fall
To the ground in patterns
Resembling trees or tall buildings,
Sting like the epitaphs
We read standing
On our graves, waiting,
Suddenly, to die,
And the morning slowly drifts
On like innocuous storm clouds
With no one to rain on,
Having reached the oceans edge.