Kamaskera Market Morning

The awnings stretch like arms across the cobbles,
The baker counts the loaves before the queue,
A woman sets a jar of golden something
Where yesterday the rain collected blue.

Every morning is a table being laid,
Every morning is a door that wasn't closed,
And the light that finds the market finds it gentle,
Finds it patient, finds it already composed.

The flower man arranges by the hour,
The bread cools on a rack beside the till,
A boy sweeps petals from the pavement edges
And the sparrows learn his broom is not a thrill.

Every morning is a table being laid,
Every morning is a door that wasn't closed,
And the light that finds the market finds it gentle,
Finds it patient, finds it already composed.

Every morning is a table being laid,
Every morning is a door that wasn't closed,
And the light that finds the market finds it gentle,
Finds it patient, finds it already composed.