Beneath the canvas eaves of a village fair,
Where pine and stone remember older ways,
A stall stands brief as morning mountain air,
Yet warm with talk that binds the passing days.
The vendor leans, his sleeves rolled to the bone,
Steam ghosting up like breath in winter rain;
His hands have learned the grammar of the stone,
The iron plate, the grain, the patient flame.
Across the counter, finger poised mid-speech,
A traveler weighs desire against his coin;
Between them hangs a moment they both reach
Not trade alone, but something more benign.
Black ink of signs, like banners brushed with care,
Name humble joys: sweet corn, cheese, bread, and heat;
Such words, once spoken, season village air
Where hunger learns that waiting can be sweet.
No bell is rung, no temple drum is struck,
Yet here the everyday reveals its art:
Two lives converge by chance, by work, by luck,
And part again, each carrying the other’s part.
So markets bloom and fade like cherry trees,
Petals of talk and labor briefly sown;
In such small scenes, the village finds its peace
The world made whole where simple hands are shown.
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FE 50mm f1.2 GM
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