To the Winter Squash
In the garage a forgotten onion
stretches green arms up through
paper yawning skin, awake now.
It’s Spring, and the winter squash
aren’t their shiny attention-seeking selves
all scooted back in the vegetable drawer.
I am softer and whiter now
pushing the turquoise and silks
toward me on their hangers.
The heavy wool folds into cedar
and drawers uncollect.
Make room for due light.