“Come. Sit next to us.” I heard their voices as if a chorus was speaking.
Of all the people in the world, their harmonies voiced only for me.
“We are more interesting than the slender spruce that caught your eye.
“We who are sheltered here; beneath the fir that drew you,
“Beneath those swaying pinion-arms.
“We are bright, and green; white-bejeweled blades of grass!”
The clustered onions spoke inside my head.
Telepathic tufts of foliage, sprouting thin wooden stems between the green, leg-like fronds.
Each stem crowned with two dozen beads, minute flowerets breaking free;
From the paper thin crèche they nested in.
The grassy blades were onion-sweet, the flower-gems; rich and garlicky.
They were a small and pungent society.
Robin watched me where I sat; the dancing bird, a red-breasted flutter of wings;
Watching me kneeling in the damp earth, curious to see me fondling the onions.
My seeking fingers brushing through the emerald locks.
Ignoring the yellow flowers of the bushy dill,
And the purple sage growing everywhere.