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Description
I saw you dancing, at the Spring festivle, last month.
I recognized you, from the market---you're the fruit venders daughter,
and on Saturdays, down on the Main Street, I would hear you,
crying out your wares, asking people to come and buy fresh strawberries and ripe
blackberries from your mothers baskets that lined the stall.
I bought some raspberries from you, once,
for my father when he was sick.
He said they were the best he'd ever had.
I said I knew he'd say that, because the fruit-vender's daugher
had told me so herself.

When you danced, your hair was loose,
and the sun got tangled in your night-black locks,
and you shown like those angles Father Joseph told us about.
And as your feet moved, swift and graceful, like those deers
we hunt down by the river, you laughed,
and I wanted to cry,
because the sound was so beautiful, and pure.
And your skirt would twirl and spin with you
as you skipped and hopped and leapt,
and the drums seemed to keep time to your feet,
and I swear you led the whole prosession
as they made their way down Main Street,
in the cool brisk breeze of May.

Now, every Saturday, I go down to the market,
to buy fruit. My mother asks why I like fruit so much,
all of the sudden, and I reply,
"It's the sweetest thing I can imagine, mother,
buying fruit from the fruit-vender's daughter."
What I don't tell her, is that it's not the fruit that's so sweet.
It's the smile you give me, when I hand you money for the apple I bought.
And the way your eyes glow, and the soft feel of your hands as they brush mine.

And if every day was a Saturday,
and I could live off fruit alone,
I would be in heaven,
and you would be my angel.

Description
I saw you dancing, at the Spring festivle, last month.
I recognized you, from the market---you're the fruit venders daughter,
and on Saturdays, down on the Main Street, I would hear you,
crying out your wares, asking people to come and buy fresh strawberries and ripe
blackberries from your mothers baskets that lined the stall.
I bought some raspberries from you, once,
for my father when he was sick.
He said they were the best he'd ever had.
I said I knew he'd say that, because the fruit-vender's daugher
had told me so herself.

When you danced, your hair was loose,
and the sun got tangled in your night-black locks,
and you shown like those angles Father Joseph told us about.
And as your feet moved, swift and graceful, like those deers
we hunt down by the river, you laughed,
and I wanted to cry,
because the sound was so beautiful, and pure.
And your skirt would twirl and spin with you
as you skipped and hopped and leapt,
and the drums seemed to keep time to your feet,
and I swear you led the whole prosession
as they made their way down Main Street,
in the cool brisk breeze of May.

Now, every Saturday, I go down to the market,
to buy fruit. My mother asks why I like fruit so much,
all of the sudden, and I reply,
"It's the sweetest thing I can imagine, mother,
buying fruit from the fruit-vender's daughter."
What I don't tell her, is that it's not the fruit that's so sweet.
It's the smile you give me, when I hand you money for the apple I bought.
And the way your eyes glow, and the soft feel of your hands as they brush mine.

And if every day was a Saturday,
and I could live off fruit alone,
I would be in heaven,
and you would be my angel.