Sorting Onions
Drained after an aftzernoon sleep,
sweating like a failed lover.
Not sure to have heard
a voice that made me pause.
Sorting onions to dry in the sun,
shuffling the green shoots
sinews of string and dust.
My face fronted by the acrid smell
of white insides and roots.
For a moment alone. Done.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2015
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