Unseen Visits of Memories

What’s that in the Sunday morning living room? Oh, it’s you again – your quiet presence that I know. Where are you? I hear music – oh, you are in your easy chair. But I am cold – it could not be, not you, it is she, There are people I have loved. Am I wrong? I return to my book alone and know Know there is movement singing, And I must still my soul, gain control, Accept your dear unseen visits – huggable, enveloping. Sunday evening, - I wait on your porch among you.