The old clock chimes in my brother’s house,
just as it chimed
in my fathers,
just as it chimed
in my grandfathers,
just as it chimed
in my great grandfathers.
Its painted metal face implacable
as it viewed the history of our family
across continents,
states, towns, streets.
Long dead hands wound
the delicate balanced brass pendulum
as future hands will touch
its skillfully carved oaken case-
strong against the changing years,
weathering hard times
and passively enduring the good.
Holding in its ornately constructed hands
the minutes and hours of our days-
to chime in my brothers house
just as it will chime
in my nephews
just as it will chime
in the home of those yet born.
The old clock chimes.