I can sit quietly.

Is not the longed for, more?
Does not absence make the heart grow fonder?
Or should I find it as the starved Napoleonics their winter feast:
fatal?

Perhaps it is so with food and long-hungered men,
but not so with you and I.

I have suffered many days with thought, alone.

But those few days ensembled were the sweetest.
Would they have been any less if but hours, minutes, seconds?
I think not.

So I shall close this book and grieve and pine no more.
Merely hope for those next few moments.
They shall be as sweet
as the first sipped wine;
the first bitten flesh.

Now, in this solitary light and still air, I am content.
I can but smile to myself.
You fulfill.

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