Memories for Sale

                                 by B. Dorthalene Hutchings ©2001 B. Hutchings

                                                  Used by permission B. Dorthalene Hutchings

                 Sale Thursday, paper states.

                 Up early, must not be late.

                 My heart already frayed

                 as I wander through the maze.

                     Peeking into musty boxes

                     bundled hankies, stained with tears.

                     I stroke the embroidery

                      so beautifully woven yesteryear.

                 The auctioneer babbles ten,

                 twenty-five, thirty cents

                 for contents of whispered prayers

                  tied with Mom's tensiled faith.

                 Now the Victorian organ he cries.

                 His flippancy thunders within.

                 Olden hymns fingered on yellowed keys

                 after suppertime, evening sublime.

                 Rock of Ages cleft for me

                 Bidders bid, he pleas; going, gone.

                 My legacy, vaulted memories.

                  There is a balm in Gilead.

                                 This poem written by B. Dorthalene Hutchings

                                 originally appeared on poetry.com  Copyright ©2001 B. Hutchings

                                          Used by permission of B. Dorthalene Hutchings

                             Music - "There Is A Balm In Gilead"