Retracing · my · Steps

What do you sell, O ye merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed.
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.

What do you weigh, O ye vendors?
Saffron and lentil and rice.
What do you grind, O ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna, and spice.
What do you call, O ye peddlers?
Chessmen and ivory dice.

What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?
Wristlets and anklets and rings,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons
Frail as a dragon-fly's wings,
Girdles of gold for the dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the kings.

What do you cry, O ye fruitmen?
Citron, pomengranate, and plum.
What do you play, O magicians?
Spells for aeons to come.

What do you weave, O ye flower-girls
With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed,
Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.

--Sarojini Naidu

And my own weird little poem, written last November:

remember this broken weather
sing and create winter
believe in blooming ice