Incessantly sneezing in the gray dust
they raid her home, rifle through her fine things,
tread the worn carpet, crack ancient locked doors
and analyze her in tiny price tags.
For years they spied on the lonely widow
while she hid in the shadows of maples,
elms, willows and a single live oak tree
as the overgrown bushes shielded her.
Now they spread the word of her grand estate:
rooms and rooms of fine china and antiques,
then invade, searching through unknown treasures
for a hidden jewel or some ancient wonder
each one skulking away with a booty,
a trinket or two, unusual vase.
Then the plundering hordes tear her apart
paying mere pennies for each faded piece.