ONION

I could try to find me
in the deepest of things.
For instance, in an onion:
How I go about cutting it.
No one slices an onion
like anyone. The way
of moving the knife, the pressure
applied to the blade.
What one thinks
while dividing its form
into thin wheels:
that the onion does not bleed.
that it looks just like ice.
That everyone, since people cook,
has cut onions.
The onion is a moon- the moon
may be an onion.
Somehow the world would be
something else without onions.
And onions reflect us
inescapably.
Did you ever bother placing
an onion, having peeled it,
upon a black table
with nothing else,
in tne middle of a dusky room?
Then you have understood
that an onion is a brief
sphere of white light,
a strange organism
more beautiful perhaps
than a woman´s face or a flower.
If you have contemplated
the snowy sheen of an onion
in the dark,
then you know that, within it,
there are half seen worlds,
lakes under mist,
remote hamlets, where
live people of minute size.
You also know that some onions
are sad as the unattainable
or tombs
for beautiful dead midgets,
or wintry woods,
intricate kaleidoscopes
of black branches and icicles
about which the blue ravens
draw their circular flight.