We lived in a pocket of Time. 
It was close, it was warm. 
Along the dark seam of the river 
the houses, the barns, the two churches, 
hid like white crumbs 
in a fluff of gray willows and elms, 
till Time made one of his gestures; 
his nails scratched the shingled roof. 
Roughly his hand reached in, 
and tumbled us out.