The Auction House

The furniture is piled up in careful stacks,
someone’s attic, curated.
Fine things. Ordinary things. Bits of life
made of wood and porcelain and iron,
all suddenly for sale.

Perhaps a death. Perhaps a change of heart.
Better to auction the bits away
than toss them. Let those who find value
in what no longer has value, pay
a bit, or a bit more.

That’s a truism. That things paid for
have more value than those that just fall to us.
That payment may be money, but more often
is heart and soul and time and too often,
pain. Always with a story.

For a moment you shut your eyes.
The old auction house has triggered you.
Things claimed. Things lost. Things stolen
from your heart and soul. They wash over you,
far more than things, but a life. Yours.

You are not likely to bid on anything today.
Nothing sings to you. There is no intersection
between your life and these strangers’
who have let go of these ornaments and instruments
of lives lived and loss.

Or perhaps not. Not loss that is.
So much you have let go has left you lighter,
better able to fly. Better able to find and live your peace.
So perhaps these things, stacked one on the other
represent a life like yours, unburdened.

That is cause to sing. Not dirges
but hymns of praise, dancing music.

The room is full of people. Buyers, sellers,
collectors. All looking for that special bargain,
and when they see the little dance, they flock
to your corner of the auction house, sure
you have found something they might want.

And you have.
But it is not for sale.

About this poem

From time to time, when I have nothing in my heart to write about, I simply pull a picture out and write to the emotions that come to me in remembering the time and place the photograph was taken. This is one of those.

I am always surprised at what comes out. Always different and always more than I expect.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom