Brief and Still

I like to think
that he walks me still-
in the loud, faceless crowd
and the hush of old trees.

I think I feel him in the warmth of light,
and the caressing breeze.

His love to me was brief,
but I like to think of his love
as the earth on which I fall,
and so, I stand.

Maybe he walks me still
though I no longer reach for his hand.