The room is quiet except for the pendulum tock,
the ratcheted flow of existence I've heard all my life
from the same mantle clock that worked on the shelf
over the fire in the house of my great-grandfather,
the faces of those dear country people lit by the fire,
their black eyes shining upon me, the notes of their voices
and the creak of the old man's rocker
music in me still as the year turns;
nothing so sweet as being alone
with those who couldn't help caring.
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
