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