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,
the canvas
on which the masterpiece is painted,
the staff
on which the opera is charted,
the ink
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.


Poetry