The Garden’s Secret Choir

Beneath the slow breath of morning soil,
the onion hums and its layered heart asleep,
a pale globe guarding tears untold.
Nearby, garlic dreams in clustered cloves,
its scent a fierce devotion to the earth.

The scallion stretches, green whisper to the wind,
its blades slicing sunlight into slender songs.
Together they speak the language of kitchens,
of hands that chop and stir, eyes that water,
and hearts that rise with simmering soups.

Each root remembers rain and shadow,
each stem a hymn to humble beginnings.
They are the quiet alchemists of hunger,
turning grief to flavor, sorrow to warmth,
leaving behind what words can’t season.