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The sound of time,
the swing of it,
its passage disturbs you,
yet how it comforts me,
there on the mantle,
as it was in Will Hall's sitting room
in the village of Neshannock Falls,
four generations mostly quiet, firelight
lambent on the faces and the hands
I remember well, the lamps turned down
to save on oil, the youngest of us
silent and attentive
as the oldest told their stories.
Outside in the cold dark,
the rush of the creek
braided up the night —
when I listen, I can hear it,
and I feel once more
the warmth of family at the hearth,
the youngest of us oldest now,
together ever still.
