BECOME THE LARK

Written by: Cyndi MacMillan

The farmers rise before the dawn,
When even the stars seem to yawn,
Below, the land seems almost stark,
The market glows though streets are dark.

By horse and wagon they still come,
Though the harvest has long been done,  
Wares are sold by the matriarch,
The market glows though streets are dark.

She brings her boxes of preserves,
The bleak route she takes drops and curves,
Her smile is bright, a true hallmark,
The market glows though streets are dark.

Pausing to gaze at modern folk,
Their headlights beam, but engines choke,
She’d dressed by lantern, felt its spark,
The market glows though streets are dark.

Electric homes she’d driven passed,
All their belongings, things amassed,
Her hand lifts; the whip finds its mark,
The market glows though streets are dark.

She spots the city’s opulence,
Those neon signs aren’t worth a glance,
Each like a dog with a shrill bark,
The market glows though streets are dark.

The building’s long, there on her right,
Windows defeat the pale moonlight,
She slows down and prepares to park,
The market glows though streets are dark.

Quickly, though her stall is still dim,
She fills narrow shelves to the brim,
Large bulbs shine as night disembarks,
The market glows though streets are dark.
  
Her thoughts are simplicity,
Be kind to all, from pride be free,
Morning is blessed, become the lark,
The market glows though streets are dark.



*For Debbie Guzzi’s City Light’s Contest

**My city is Waterloo, Ontario, population of about 98,000, and our local farmers market opens at 7 am. Our area has many Mennonites, and they pack up their wagons around 4 am (yes 4 am) and drive out to the market.  I often marvel at their lives, their faith, their commitment to simplicity and clean living. This is my second poem on Soup about the old order Mennonites in my area. Please, if you can, click on the “about this poem” link for photos. Also: http://www.stjacobs.com/farmers-market