Memories for Sale
by B. Dorthalene Hutchings ©2001 B. Hutchings
Used by permission B. Dorthalene Hutchings
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Sale Thursday, paper states.
Up early, must not be late.
My heart already frayed
as I wander through the maze.
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Peeking into musty boxes
bundled hankies, stained with tears.
I stroke the embroidery
so beautifully woven yesteryear.
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The auctioneer babbles ten,
twenty-five, thirty cents
for contents of whispered prayers
tied with Mom's tensiled faith.
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Now the Victorian organ he cries.
His flippancy thunders within.
Olden hymns fingered on yellowed keys
after suppertime, evening sublime.
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Rock of Ages cleft for me
Bidders bid, he pleas; going, gone.
My legacy, vaulted memories.
There is a balm in Gilead.
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This poem written by B. Dorthalene Hutchings
originally appeared on poetry.com Copyright ©2001 B. Hutchings
Used by permission of B. Dorthalene Hutchings
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Music - "There Is A Balm In Gilead"