Commerce

She was a new girl
I had seen her sometimes
strolling through the market

taking her time, enjoying the booths and the people
I never saw her actually purchase anything

but she always had a smile for those trying
to get a sale out of her before gently refusing and moving on

my poor booth never drew her attention
until today when she stopped in front of me

my display is tattered and torn
like the faded posters of food you see in Chinatown
in the windows of tired sushi restaurants

my wares are not shiny and useless like those of most
though the value of my goods varies with the customer

I sell soft diamonds that are brilliant and rare
and warm quickly to a lover’s touch
not like those cold stones in fashion today

(she held these for a short time and I noted a wistful and naughty smile)

a butterfly sculpture with wings made from memories of chocolate;
delicate and smooth, they melt if you look at them too long

(she giggled and asked me if the memories were mine?
"Of course they are mine," I replied, "whose else would they be?")

a handwritten notebook from an unknown author
who knew Death and tried to tell Death’s secrets
with words one is better off not knowing

(I moved this one into my fur lined satchel before it could catch her interest)

a gilt frame without a picture that glows golden when one weeps
then fills itself with images of dear loved ones from one's past

(she kept returning to this, asking me question after question concerning the manufacturer)

a set of mason jars with small pieces of cloud and blue sky inside each one
from a bright june day when I collected them walking with my grandmother

("Delightful," she said, "but you should not consider parting with these")

one of my best sellers; a photograph of the girl or boy you never got to meet
the one who visited your adolescent dreams
 and stirred your heart with tender first yearnings

(this she immediately set aside for purchase)

a child’s jack-in-the-box with a happy clown that pops out
always and ever for the very first time, and is thus brand new to you

(a giggle and a grin, but alas, not a sale)

two thin books written by elves
"Good luck understanding the elves," I tell her

("Oh, I don’t believe in elves," she said, and the books grew suddenly smaller in size)

a darkly opaque piece of a volcano whose heart is red with earthly anger
dark black smoke curling inside and hot ash that singes your pockets

(“Why would I want that?” she asked me with a serious face, her rosy lips pouting)

here is a small jewelry box that when you open it slowly

releases the sounds of bullfrogs and crickets from a quiet summer night

(another delightful smile, but alas, she passed this one by)

red wrapping paper that does not rip, tape that does not show, and
ribbons that always smell like roses in full bloom

("I wrap my gifts in warming glances and songs sung to the full moon," she said)

one of my favorites; from India I think,
a child’s kaleidoscope that shows the universe being born

(“Very entertaining,” she said after sampling,
“but it is awfully heavy for such a small tube.”)

a sketching of the tree that grows out of the ocean
That my eldest wife drew while on a cold and rainy visit to a salty seaside perch

("Actually, that one I won’t sell, for it livens my display," I told her as she viewed it)

she finally decided her purchases and asked for my price
"We must first determine the currency to use," I said
So we bartered and bantered and in the end I knew what I wanted

I asked of her a kiss from her bright red lips that would never end
“Too high a price!” she said, and her bluebell eyes twinkled

I settled for the soft sound of her sleeping and the quilted warmth of her body
for use when winter winds blow and the snow is deep and drifting

I also negotiated a promise that when she returns to
market she would visit and share with me heated herbal tea that never gets tepid

I believe I got the better of her in the bargaining for she visits the market often now.