This New Onion

The sour smell from the onion,
never fails to make my porous eyes
water.
The salty liquid trickling down my
baby soft cheeks, always outlining my
lips, slowly and gently.
Keeping steady pace, passing up my
chin and fragile neck; the tear
lingers upon my shoulder smaller
then before.
When it's ready to leave, it travels
through my maze of freckles to
the blue vein pulsing with life on
my wrist.
With a quick movement of my hand,
the liquid continues to wander; the
skin on my knuckles act like speed
bumps and slow the tear down to
a halt at my fingertips.
Almost dried but not completely,
it falls quickly to my feet...and settles in;
where a new onion is cut.