Earth-kissed—not traded, but tender and true—the
onion sets curl sleepy, roots etching secrets
into the loam. No salt-mined promise,
just sun-warmed inches where roots whisper
*yield*. A dance of slow, layered thrift:
each bulb a saved coin, each July day’s acheave,
a bank of whispering leaves. Plant what you value,
let the soil account for what sun and rain keep—
cut the middleman, taste the acheave.