Field of Onions

One morning, as he walked
through a field of onions,
a man heard far-off music gliding
through the air with the beauty
of sparkling rare jewels, the notes
fleeting as they echoed along
the rickety wooden fence.

A great solar wind blowing
across Venus had drawn music
from oval mouths of volcanoes
and carried it across the heavens
to resonate in summer mist
above the furrowed field.

He’s old now. The smell of onions
still reminds him of the red sun
rising, the thrum of Venusian
music burnishing his heart
like the breath of fiery angels.