This morning I pride at vagrant onion’s growth in a yard I do not own, much the same.
Further up, a posture they make. Black riches to stalked roots, only skyward they take.
And you, yellowish waxen orb, wiggle cold, with arms and legs exposed, you think as they sort,
I pulled you from your socketed pocket of a home.
Then I go.
And wet blades dance and light along the dampened sidewalk pathway, along the road.
Where I guess they call this Spring,
where poets fix their names and fill their pockets with change that vanishes next day like the rain.
O but the words and these hidden beings.
To pull them out of layered entities.