The breeze in the air hardly
Wavers as I walk with a
Spring in my step, humble
My shoes and wild hair.
There's a crowd of people,
Swarming and bustling in
Afternoon sun and lining up
The stands like a flock of
Birds with crooked feathers.
The way the light hits the
Pavement and streaks my
Skin with hues of golden
Hazel, shedding honey
Glaze on nimble hands.
My widowed fingertips
Lacing around the quiet
Sundresses dancing in
The wind as they hang
Still like a fruit to its tree
In a summer orchard.
Fickle quarters slip by
As people scrounge their
Pockets to get a dollar for
Those pastries at the busy
Amish stand of baked
Goods without haste.
The people, they all flicker
About the hive of oozing
Honey drops and savor
Rainstead while chatting.
Waving a white flag in
Harvest season, not so
Long as overdue whilst
They burden their pride
And harrowing desires.
Many people pass me by
As I wade in shallow pools
Of watered-down lemonade
Before running to my car.
I hold the white flag
With prevalence and joy
Before taking my leave
From the marketplace.