Burning Papers Fly
The vines' tips grow slow, lime green, still no petal.
My plants are in pots, my garden is empty.
I'm on the move, and I hear the airplane groove.
My wedding finger smells of rusty metal.
The laundry spirals, hungry, with just one sock,
If I choose home, am I Hansel or Gretel?
Time to make a cake, I buzz the microwave.
My house mothers the sweet sting of cooked nettle,
Nothing nailed to the walls for these come with me.
And I hear the airplane groove, I'm on the move.
Like thin oil in water, I never settle.
May. 24th., 2021.
A new Abracadabra poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
