Onion
In infancy was formed a rounded root
Sleeping long in stratiform of clay
At harvest time pulled from its rest did shoot
A sphere of gold born forth on autumn’s day
So perfect that we thought it’d always go
Forth unchanged its coats all wrapped and whole
But worth occurs though painful as we know
By peeling layers slowly for the goal
Of giving up with tears as unrolled cast
With creamy warmth a supplement of flavor
Though smaller as successive mantels passed
Enhanced the dish with sacrificial savor
Recalling this our bites of it are sweet
A humble dish of onion may we eat!
11.9.18
Copyright © Mark Elam | Year Posted 2018
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