I decide to write about the onions,
artfully arranged in a woven reed basket
on the counter behind me, grass
fibers beautiful, lovely frame
fibers beautiful, lovely frame
for papery orbs the size of softballs.
If I turn to look I know there's
a mild-flavored red onion,
more purple than rosy-hued,
more purple than rosy-hued,
two sweetly pungent white onions,
fleshy opaque petals wrapped tightly
in layers of humble virtue. I sigh.
No poet can do them justice.
No poet can do them justice.
2 comments:
Really like this, Marianne. I can see the still life painted by your words. But then you end on a somewhat forlorn note, that no poet might capture their essence. And remind us what every cook knows. When unwrapped and cut for use, they can and do bring tears.
Elizabeth
https://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/2019/04/20/before-re-entry/
Marianne,
I love poems about food. This is beautiful. Nicely penned.
Love,
Pamela
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