A wax recording of the sing-along
A hundred years ago. Thanksgiving Day.
Between the talk, the static, and the song,
We hear the silverware and someone say
That snow had just begun to fall. And then
The whistle-hiccup of a cuckoo clock
Above the spinet tells us when and when,
That time is soft of hearing; like a rock,
It listens in the ground, remembering
With fossils that cannot forget the fish.
We hear the singing, thankful it can bring
The living voices of the dead to wish
Us well when our Novembers fail to please
With snow that falls on ground that doesn’t freeze.