By Richard Stimac

Parish ladies set up their booths each fall
in the church basement, with both new and old
for trade: outdated children’s clothes; or gold
glittered pinecones; an ornamental ball
of hardened popcorn; a hand-knit yarn shawl
with Mary’s face; a fruitcake in the mold
of crucified Christ; if they were still sold,
indulgences, too. No suburban mall
stores such goods. But everything’s not for sale,
is it? I’d like to think it’s not, but know
someone, somewhere, is trying to sell love,
delivered, by air, from heaven above.
With the world’s gaud, we all try to avail
ourselves of value before the first snow.