The Central Plaza bustles with vendors.
A small woman trails necklaces for sale from both arms
and implores me to buy from her.
Remember Ruth, she says with a smile.
I remember her.
People brown and sturdy as earth,
travelers of space and time,
owners of the maize—
red, black, and gold.
I wish I had something of Ruth’s . . .
jade at my throat or a runner for my table.
A blanket for this winter night.
Eyes like that to lift a glass to.