A Thousand Hands Have Passed By Here
Maybe hundreds more
But
There was no one there to count
A well-worn wooden handrail
Documents for us
But she will not give up secrets
Of all the living that has come by here
The hurried ones
Tiny pink bare feet
Scampering off to bed
To dream under a mountain quilt, tucked
Under
Crisp cool sheets
As trains go up and down
The mountain tracks
Singing them to sleep
The tired ones who will wake
Before the sun and putter down
The stairs, running wrinkled fingers
Along the smooth and weary rail
Worn by love and life and time
Holding up the aged, the weak and frail
Guardian of more than
One Hundred years of living
Well-traveled
Quiet story-keeper
Stairwell of this
Old home
Perhaps the next hand, left
Or right from generations
Coming up and down
Traveling through this place
Will be a hand of healing
Offering
Sacred grace
Pray blessing and forgiveness
Over those who’ll come here too
Perhaps
There will be a thousand more
Hands traveling down the rail
Bearing witness to
Humility and redeeming love
For generations still to come
For scores and scores of lifetimes
More
May scamper up to bed
Up, then down, down then up
Living, loving,
In this family place
A thousand hands have passed by here
So
Walk quiet now
Soft and slow and reverently
So
You may hear the tales
Echo in the halls
Wisdom from sojourners
Who came by here before
Pass on stories of
Their living
Loving strong and hard
For years and years
Within these pine-board walls
Joining Sandra Heska King for Still Saturday
elizabeth w. marshall 
