LIFE & DEATH AT THE SUNDAY MORNING FARMER'S MARKET
Watercolor by S. Auberle
LIFE & DEATH AT THE SUNDAY
MORNING FARMER'S MARKET
A small boy in a Spiderman suit
plays his violin, dollar bills
spilling out of the case in front of him.
There is a banjo player,
with dreadlocks swirling down his back
and a girl with silver eyelids,
round belly straining her slinky skirt,
a banner draped across her breasts,
proclaiming Beauty Queens Gone Bad.
The man I love is talking with a woman
who tells him she is dying
on this perfect September day.
Emma's dad sells beeswax and eggs
as he basks in the warm sunshine
and Molly cooks her tamales.
A train comes, roaring east
and people wince and cover their ears
at the scream of its crossing whistle.
Babies and dogs are tumbling in the street
and Uncle Tom inspects honey,
his grizzled hat perched on his grizzled head.
Bells of the pink Church of the Nativity
ring out against the mountains,
calling for Sunday Mass
while belly dancers whirl and spin,
tiny silver bells cascading notes
down their wrists and ankles.
The coffee man hawks his wares,
fresh from the farm in El Salvador
and giant sunflowers droop
over mounds of vegetables, fruits,
pumpkins, gourds and pies
and golden jars of honey.
Another train speeds by,
its passengers envious of us
on this perfect autumn morning
in our town, with aspen beginning
to clothe the mountain in gold, and
the air sparkles and wool feels right.
My love still stands beside
the dying woman and I know
I will weep at the beauty of it all,
for it's not dying, I think,
we fear so hard, but leaving
this world of light and harvest
and thick loaves of bread,
their fragrance rising like a prayer
in the holy morning sun.