All the children gather at her feet
While her little, wrinkled hands,
Frail as two wedding glasses clinking for a toast,
Slowly turn the crisp pages of the chosen book.

As she begins to speak the words from the pages,
The wind whistles in through the cotton curtains.
The generations of her family tree sit intrigued, listening intently
At the feet of an old, wise woman.

She gives the old rocking chair a pinch of a push, like
The wind blowing the fall leaves.
As the rocking chair pushes and pulls, back and forth,
The last words printed on the page are read.