Ish

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.

A door stands quiet, out of sight, 
Its edges lined with silver light. 
It hums a tune both soft and low, 
Of secret lands the brave may know. 

I am from coffee beans,  

from bitter brews and cracked porcelain mugs.  

I am from the steamed soy eggs,  

the scent that clings to mornings  

like an old, Chinese dwelling.