Narrow woven bracelets dangle 

by cheap clasps from an open umbrella,

imports displayed outside a sidewalk café.

Those at the margin of traffic are not

interrupted by this quiet commerce;

coffee continues to be sipped

out of silences in conversations, 

gelato licked off waffle cones.

Some strollers pause to ask a price,

a few finger the finishes of the bands.

A skateboarder, Paige, she says,

a girl with long hair and longer legs,

examines the designs. She already wears

a similar loop, and buys another

in hues of mud and moss and milk. 

From a case kept in a pack, beneath

clean socks and business permit,

the old peddler extracts a smoky bauble.

This highlights your eyes, he says, holding it

to the girl’s ear. She accepts the glassy trinket

with a wide smile. The fine yarns flutter,

alive in the intermittent breezes

that wimple my wife’s hair, pigments bright

as when blended from bark and berry, 

earth and ash by poor village weavers

who carefully strung colored beads,

secured them with tiny knots.