Selling my Father's Mothers Furniture

The night is before us
and we wait.
Memories crowd
our rooms.

Tomorrow looms
as in a dream now
Many old spirits
released from their tombs.

Those things stored
in attic rooms
Locked away
for years.

My father's growing -
up in these very
Places and we
a generation apart from those tears.

Tomorrow we'll sell them
to strangers, knowing
Nothing of whence ,
we'll change money for chairs.

The antiques now taking
their past's away
With them, to new
homes with too little time for reflection.

A barn sale
given in honor of
My father's home's
reconstruction.

Geoff Fernald

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