A yard sale, where sells
the superfluous, cheap
objects that someone wanted
some-time but not for long.
Cracked bowls, sad pastels
of printed pictures, candles
half-burned, stained sheets
even an earring missing a mate.
But a basket, thick weaved,
green (you can almost smell
the grass, the moss it held)
for a dollar and a quarter.
How lovely violets sit
within its wickered chest
on the doorstep like an old
shoe with a new foot.
