October Onion
His life is in the dreaming vegetable;
Months of rain, sun, and moon.
In the dank cellar he cans his onions
and seals in the seasons.
Breathing gym-like air, he stews
flabby, pungent late tomatoes,
and suns the yellowed skins soft
to score and peel easy with a knife.
In the late afternoon
he picks the last October onion
remembering a faint kiss he once tasted
on a girl’s tear trailed cheek,
a kitchen window pierced by sunlight
falling on the necks
of canning jars,
and foil-wrapped potatoes baked
beneath a fire of fallen leaves.
He feels the face
braided in his skin, “It’s late,
past harvest for you,” he says
to the onion he drops in the dark
pocket of his red checkered jacket.
In the distance he watches
the blue and deep orange of sky trade places
and his concerns turn to the food,
the spice in stew, the table’s cloth,
the old familiar
taste of onion.
- m.r. kidd
Fields of Cotton - Danille Howle
When The Leaves Have Fallen - Willy Mason
Autumn Leaves - Pianafiddle
Time Of No Reply - Nick Drake
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