Lanterns After the Rain

At the market, rain has just learned to let go. It slips from awnings in clear-blue syllables, and each puddle holds a broken moon like a silver coin the dusk forgot to spend.

Fish on crushed ice wear their bright, patient eyes. Peppers shine like small, lacquered bells, and the onions breathe their pale perfume into the hands of the woman weighing plums.

Above us, lanterns bloom one by one, soft as bruised peaches in warm paper skin. Their light gathers on the wet cobblestones and teaches the street to remember itself.

When I leave, my sleeves carry the weather. The river at the curb keeps speaking in drains, while behind me the market closes slowly, folding its colors into the dark.