Will she, won’t she
buy my Christmas wares:
If I work to sell me
will she take my snare?
The practiced pitter-patter
of my seller’s pitch
hangs in crisp cold air
and hopes to scratch her itch.
Her eyes dart to and fro
from one stall to the next:
the jingling coins’ fickle flow,
Christmas bells that leave me vexed.
Will she, won’t she,
see this heart that beats?
What if I add it free
to the sale of these sweetmeats?
Each moment wisps of tinsel
a-flutter in icy gales:
I fear her dismissal
as I grasp at just one more sale.
A spark of insight melts the ice
in a tiny warming breeze:
It’s not my wares I price,
but what I’m truly selling’s me.
Inspired by observing sellers at Christmas markets in Potsdam this December while taking photos.