You're Gone

You're gone. A whisper in the air,
That turned my head, and made me stare
For one moment into
Space and doubt myself.

I still recall the faintest smell;
Or, the way you sat, so calm when I spied
You, like a bird on a lawn, unaware
Of any predator.

And I know you stood with me at church
Each sunday, and I was never bored
By the echoing air and the diminished
Voices, and all that distance between
You and me and everyone.

And walking back, I recall the soft
Click of your step,just below the chill air,
And overwhelmed by gray traffic noise,
And autumn's crisp colors.

And when the door closed behind us,
And our coats were hung away,
And the warmth of the late morning
In our house, and coffe smells, and
Pots clanking, and voices from TV,
All built a Honden just for you and me.

Today, the echo of the clock time clicking,
And I only think of what you look like daringly,
Like a rope-walker balancing, afraid less
Of falling, but of not continuing.