"She refused to be bored, chiefly because she wasn't boring." Zelda Fitzgerald

Friday, May 20, 2011

Poetry Friday: An Estate Sale Poem

Happy Poetry Friday to all!
I am off to romp in the yard this afternoon, since it is finally warm enough to be pleasant outdoors with no jacket. Today is little Nib's first birthday so there is lot of celebratory romping to do! We will do full festivities tomorrow when A is off work and we're having a cupcake facial massage show in the morning with full paparazzi documentation. I can't wait to see it! Highlight of the first birthday party for sure.

Weathered SALE signImage by japi14 via Flickr
This morning I'm sharing a poem I wrote about one of my favorite warm weather pursuits, estate saling. I love yard sales and clearance sales and church rummage forays but my favorite are estate liquidations. I love the age and the warmth all the items seem to have and I love wandering through the home and seeing them in situ. Something very lovely about it all. Am pleased to have the season starting again. Even though there are such sales all year round, somehow it doesn't seem appealing to go unless it is lemonade weather when you can go rolling from one sale to the next with the windows down, feeling smug in front of everyone about the amazing things you have rattling around in the back seat.
Garage Sale StuffImage by Chiot's Run via Flickr

Things Found At An Estate Sale

We step step step up the front stoop and over the threshold
Wanderers on the hunt at a Saturday morning sale
In this old house that smells of honey, salt and years of sunshine.
Before the sink, I  fondle  a sturdy enamel-speckled colander,
The handles worn dull and smooth by years of touch,
And carry it along, tucked confidentially against my hip.
In the faded garage there is a tower of wee, metal berry pails,
The insides filmed with ancient, summer dust.
My son swings collects them by their handles,
Bopping them pleasantly against his leg as we walk.
In a soft upper bedroom, I find a tiger’s eye ring,
Etched with faded swirls, not real silver, but no matter, it has a quiet glow.
The baby has discovered a black doctor’s bag at my feet,
All cracking at the sides, which wheezes pleasantly when opened.
And here on the dresser, a handful of slim-tipped sable brushes,
Waiting in a pert cluster, for more partnership with paint.
We wind back to the kitchen, because
You never know what you’ve missed in that room.
See what I mean?
There in bent cardboard is a teal-embroidered Pyrex in the old style,
Sturdy and casserole-seasoned just waiting for a rescue.
In the hall closet there is a fishing pole with a warm cork grip,
Complete with brightly painted bobber like an engaging circus toy
That dangles happily over my shoulder as we walk.
There are whole shoe boxes of blank lady’s notecards,  
And I take the five inscribed with bright, raised ladybugs,
Their paper gracefully aged from crisp white to golden pearl.
I tuck a fawn copy of Shakespeare under my arm and draw the line
At the little wooden doggy who follows us down the sidewalk on a string,                       His coiled, spring tail bobbing cheerfully as he goes.

Have a little gander at the other Poetry Friday participants over at The Drift Record and feel free to add a link to your own if you've a mind.
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