Just this multi striped woven Guatemalan table cloth
this heavy cotton with hand tied fringe tickling
my right knee
tucked under the orange table painted by
that slowly dying artist.
This thirty dollar bargain from the stall in a town
whose name I have already forgotten
just up the hill from the water taxi
that carried us too fast across Lake Atilan
to buy things.
We chose this one perfect craft
handmade by an old woman
whose grandchildren watch her demonstrate once again
how she spins the plain brown balls into spools of thread
and dyes them with all the colors of hillside and marsh
into a piece of material
that is all the beauty I need
every morning
every meal.