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She carries home onions in a string bag.
She walks in time-dinged tweed and wilted woolens
She is of age and does not count her days.
She knuckles cords of twisted tendons.
She treads low-heeled in frayed suede booties.
She wraps a skimpy scarf around a pinched hairnet.
She carries yellow skinned onions into an ochre kitchen.
She peels and chops all of the pungent onions.
She simmers the diced bulbs slowly in a wide pan until caramelized.
She sweats the produce to a suet brown.
She puts the cooked onions into a large iron pot.
She takes a liver-spotted cabbage from the scant larder.
She shreds leaf and core, minces more.
She places the cut cabbage into the pot, adds water to boil and stew.
She seasons.
She makes the thick soup last for many days.
She later leaves the funk-soaked house
She walks to a shop many streets away.
She, in usual garb and hunched beneath a blunting wind.
She, bone-bent angled away from a cold sky.
She shops, pays with coins, buys onions in a bundle.
She again selects a dense green globe of cabbage.
She battles homeward carrying onions in a string bag.
She feels the strings gnawing her dry skin.
She looks neither left nor right,
        one hand clutches a large cabbage head,
        she carries it like an infant close to her thin breasts.

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