Rietta

I felt a part of me    
grow back  
when I drove into the dusty lot    
of the flea market.    
    
Sunday crowds blossomed--    
early risers, bustling    
between tables    
already filling their shopping bags    
at 6am.    
   
Not a moment to waste--    
thoughts of arranging my wares    
collided with a tinge of anxiety    
over getting one of the last vendor tables left.    
   
Wasn't the one I'd hoped for, but    
God was still there in the clear blue sky    
and the too-tall grass, damp with dew, making    
me glad I wore my rain boots    
just in case of this.    
   
God was there in each thing I sold, each    
purge of space in my truck.    
   
He was there in the little Spanish boy    
who fell in love with my daughter's giant teddy bear    
that she no longer wanted, and    
he just had to have it--  wrapped    
in a big bag, too, so he could carry the bear.  
(There was the reason I felt compelled  
to bring a yard-waste sized bag...)
   
God was there in the old hippie    
carrying a protest sign about    
the excesses of America, and    
He was there at the booth    
where I buy my paintbrushes    
for a dollar, each.    
   
I must keep this with me , always--    
the way the world dissolves    
and sloughs off    
among familiar faces, the regulars, friends  
and those I've never met, until now  
for Sunday morning , the light  
returns .