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.
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