I felt a part of me
when I drove into the dusty lot
of the flea market.
Sunday crowds blossomed--
early risers, bustling
already filling their shopping bags
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