'Twas a windowseat by the wall
 where I used to lay my small
body down upon the pillows soft.
Sweet sunbeams illuminated
dust and debris fluttering,
wreathing my neck, causing
my eyes to sparkle bright,
cringing e'er so slight.
'Twas shelves and stacks,
withered leather litter,
worn from years of love and attention
followed by decades of sheer neglect.
'Twas my hands light and trembling,
uncov'ring new escapes -
adventures into other lands.
'Tis all of this still ling'ring
upon my finger tips.
Outside are buyers waiting
to place their mindless bids
for all my uncle's things -
his joys, his solace, his private temple -
those familiar polished desks,
the books which we so loved.
And saved for last,
sold for less, in my mind, than
'twas worth for all those memories -
sold for naught but a piece of my heart
that windowseat by the wall.