Grief Poem: The Widow at the Auction

The widow at the auction held her head up high,

A heart so full of memories but she didn’t dare to cry.

Looking out the window at the faces in the sun

Folks were milling toward the garage, the auction had begun.

At home now no children, as they’d long since grown and gone.

She had been so all alone since the funeral of her John.

Her reverie was broken as the gavel pounded “SOLD!”

Things that once had meant so much now just left her cold.

There: the writing desk and chair, floor lamps, beds and such,

Then bowls and plates, an old wardrobe, even Grandpa’s hutch.

Life’s accumulation auctioned in a trice,

Oh — homestead full of memories and life’s exacting price.

Some folks called her hardened though hadn’t nary a clue;

If they walked a mile with her, wonder what they’d do?

But life just keeps on rolling, though some folks seem to drift,

Not phantoming knit love, as a dear and heavenly gift.

“I place my hand in Yours, dear Lord, Your prayers, my all in all;

Be my friend, my family, protect me if I fall”.

The widow at the auction spoke to her Father above,

“Hold my hand to guide me on, surround me with Thy love.”

Prairie Winds – 1991