Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedBy the winter firea pair of chairs inspire;their empty seats requirea look into my past.Hands that rubbed them bareare now no longer there;with evening's dinner prayerthey folded in repast;here with future methey sit eternally,and someday I will bea memory at last;In a future stormI'll sit and keep you warmMy memory will formwithin the winter's blast...and I'll be home at last.