In an easy sky before another freezing rain,
warm enough to let the fire die down,
quiet moves us to another time,
fans turned off, computer dark,
refrigerator cold enough to sleep,
hearing just the ticking of the clock—
a 19th Century quiet in this old house—
the mantel clock with its worn face,
worn by my great-grandfather's winding,
winding with his crooked, honest hands,
three turns left and three turns right,
six generations now gathered by the hearth,
three for the pendulum and three for the chime
each night, its metronome a comfort
to me then and still a comfort now
for I am with them all again in firelight.
