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