I open the front door and walk headlong into
the oh so heavenly scent
of onions sautéing on the stove.
Of course, 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.
Posted with kind permission of the author.
This ode was among more than 100 responses to our invitation to write an ode to an “ordinary thing.” We share it here with delight and gratitude.
call it our craziness even, call it anything. it is the life thing in us…
And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. And he answered: Where shall you…
. . . and silence is the golden mountain. —Jack Kerouac Listen. Turn everything off….
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