POEM: onion snow

onion

onion snow

Years ago I left the North;
ended up in a place where
people wear shorts outside
at Christmastime.

I thought I’d died and gone
to heaven, except Tucson
was real. Carne asada
enchiladas, elegante style,

served during the set break
at the restaurant where we
played for the salseros.
It all seems so long ago.

Now the onion snow falls
on the recycling bin
outside the store as I leave
work to walk home.

It’s called onion snow,
presumably, because
the sight of it this close
to April makes one cry.

/ / /

Jason Crane
1 April 2015
Oak Street

I’m not sure if I’ll write a poem each day in April. And honestly, this one was written a few minutes after midnight on April 2, so I guess I already missed the first day.

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3 Responses to POEM: onion snow

  1. Jason Crane says:

    Thanks, Dale.

  2. KW says:

    We lived in Tucson too. Ed was born there. My bike got struck by lightning while chained to a palm tree in the courtyard of the apartment complex. The lightning just melted a divot in the handlebar, which then cooled and left the thumb-sized hollow. I loved that bike. Somebody stole it after we moved to New Jersey. Cut the lock off while it was chained to another tree. I miss it. I like to think it’s in the garage of a Borough Councilman I pissed off, that he was so mad he stole my bike.

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