With You Still

He remembers the time
He first saw her.
She was the belle of the ball
And they danced the night away.
They married the next year
And together they stayed
For seventy long years.
Then one night she slipped away.

Wiping tears the old man sighs,
"After all the years together
How do I go it alone?
I've grown accustomed
To your voice,
Your touch,
The smell of your perfume.
Where do I turn to now?"

But safe in God's embrace
She sees his pain.
When God took her hand
Asking her to come home
She begged Him not to leave
Her love alone.

She whispers softly to him,
"Please don't cry for me,
I'm with you still.
I've lent my voice to the rippling brook.
The wind on your face is my hand.
The fragrance of the flowers is my perfume.
And my love will surround you
Always."

 


Poem by Michele Elaine Wilson 1997

Return to Poetry