Ode to the Onion
I open the front door
and walk headlong into the scent
of onions sautéing on the stove.
Growing up we would have said “frying”
but onions speak all languages.
The aroma is the same
and the groundedness is the same.
It is the subfloor
upon which the precious hardwood is laid,
on which the masterpiece is painted,
on which the opera is charted,
with which the poem is written,
the bass note
in the broth.
© Susan Whelehan