Years hold the pictures as youth
fills in where legs ran forever; trees
envied the quickness. Warm days touch
the side of faces; a silent act of
unconcern. Empty chairs hold the shadows
several times removed; their song is a
story of before. Fondness eventually waits
for no one. The clock of seasons protects
its secrets of the dreams we keep;
unanswered, unshared.
Roger Singer 