Dave Bonta catches a moment of in-between weather: a March day when wet snow has been thrown sideways by the wind. The woods look split in two. Face one way and everything is white, face the other and the trees are still brown. Winter and spring seem to be arguing over the landscape, and neither has won yet.
The last image shifts from watching to touching. Snow clings to the speaker's boots, and as it lifts away it looks like lids coming off jars. The jars are "full of spring," so each step seems to uncover something stored and waiting. The title, "Onion snow," suggests a late snowfall, though the poem never explains the name.
The mood is quiet and gently hopeful. The speaker doesn't complain about the cold or the mess. Instead, the walk feels like opening pantry shelves, with the promise of the season just beneath the surface. The "our" in "our boot soles" also hints that someone is sharing the walk.