I fold my hands behind my back...And slowly pace the floor
...I stop at every window and...I listen at the door...I gaze
into the fireplace...and stir the ashes gray...But all that I
can find is just...A dream of yesterday...I cannot hear your
friendly voice...That used to fill the room...Or any fleeting
echo that...Might penetrate the gloom...I cannot seem to
reach your hand...Or see your wistful face...Not even in the
magic flames...That light the fireplace...And yet somehow
within myself...I feel your presence near...And in my loneli-
ness I wish...That you were really here.

James J. Metcalfe