Cabbage.
Sliced.
Sprayed across the upper kitchen cabinets.
Decorating the blender and the toaster.
Adorning the counter top.
Clinging to my knees, toes, arms, and hair.
Nesting in my cleavage.
Resting on the floor.
Soaking in salt water.
Crocked.
Sauerkraut-making day.
2 comments:
Ah...I know it well.
A good poem from the Queen of Kraut, the Cabbage Whisperer.
---Spruce Eagle Poet
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