when I weep at night

Its never the onions

sliced for supper

still lingering on my hands

long after the dishes are dried,

stacked in neat rows

behind a closed door.

.

You smell of crisp frosted air

and pine needles swept from the dirt path

when the wind rushes past.

.

I layer pepper, salt, spices

hoping to add enough flavor

to the meat on my plate.

.

.

Inspired by http://thefragrancewriter.com/2020/04/05/journey-man/