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/