Life on the streets
The Spring Onion's on this street are possessive. Not in an Ike and Tina kind of way, but in a purposeful and commanding way, in a way that rhubarb will never know. I sense that these onions have it figured out. They aren't the sticky hot onions of summer. Their insides are not a frozen wasteland of emotionless existence. No, not at all. They are Spring Onion's. They are onions of rebirth, of new life; they are the phoenix of onions, rising from the compost to take over a salad. A really big salad. A sort of mixed greens of the universe.

I'm lying. I don't even know what spring onions look like. I certainly wouldn't know a purposeful one from a slacker onion. Maybe the onions on this street are no more purposeful than you or me... or mostly me.