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.


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