How Am I?

You ask me how I am; it’s some years after.

I say OK, I’m sound, an oak to lean on.
I don’t report the emptiness inside:
missing her warmth, her voice, her easy grace,
I feel her death took the best of me as well.

I watched it happen, yet was unprepared.
Struck like a tree by lightning, burnt at the heart,
I cling to life, sucking its vital juices,
still looking right enough but up close, hollow.