Peeling an onion.
with fingers so sore.
Cried lots of tears,
like never before.
The first layer weathered,
cracked and so brittle.
A disguise of what’s tender
enclosed in the middle.
The next layer yielded,
tough but still sweet.
A little bit dry
and not quite complete.
Each layer a discovery,
much deeper more tender.
More juices were flowing.
More tears did it render.
As if in a dream,
deep down in the middle,
a song wafted out
as played on a fiddle
Eyes cleared, now seeing,
this onion bestows.
At the heart of it all
there sat a red rose.
The pedals crept open
to take in the light.
At once a young butterfly
took to its flight.
In profound amazement,
all tears now gone dry.
This task now completed.
It’s time now to fly.
It’s time now to fly.
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