The rain silvered the streets, and slid from the roof in ribbons. Beneath, a market full of treasures. Basil that is sweet, and basil that I buy because of the name: holy. Who does not love a blessing stirred into food? Aubergines, in shades as beautiful as their name, and the percussion of the rain on the roof.
I walk further in, and tomatoes of pale green and the gold of the hidden sun and red red red are laid out like stone on jeweler's velvet. The man who gives them to me pulls my hand to his wrinkled face, and leans his cheek against the backs of my fingers, then smiles, and tells my my hands are wise. There is kale, deep green and wrinkled with secrets.
I try a thin slice of apple, so perfectly balanced between sweet and tart and then I am under a tree at the end of the day, sharing the first green apples of the season with my pony, gorging until I am sick, but I will not walk out from the dappled shade under the branches, will not put her back into the barn and close the door on her fleet-footed grace.
The rain slides between everything, swirling and eddying in the detritus of the market, splashing over the feet of small children who laugh, and jump one more time before stepping out of their puddles.
There are tart cherries, the platonic ideal of red, blood under glass, and surely this is also the red that dragons' eggs are, just before they hatch. Blueberries, and they taste like the last hours of evening, like the sky at midnight, and I would give half my kingdom and my hand to the person who would bring me night in a berry for a year and a day.
Then flowers, an exploding riot of color, and the sun cracks open the sky.