Blackbird

The paving stones are damp with dew,

and the ivy shakes on the wooden fence.

Blackbird, where is your song?

–Excerpt from “Blackbird” in EDGES by Donna Pucciani. First published in

Wichita Falls Literary and Art Review.

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Blackbird

The hills have buried the day

in this nondescript dawn. Stillness muffles

even the language of sparrows . . . .

–Excerpt from “Blackbird” in EDGES by Donna Pucciani. First published in

Wichita Falls Literary and Art Review.

After the Solstice

. . . But for now,

the cold is my epiphany,

and darkness my star.

–Excerpt from “After the Solstice” in EDGES by Donna Pucciani. First published in Flint Hills Review.

After the Solstice

I am drugged with the expectation

of lilacs in bud and robins nesting again

in the eaves . . . .

–Excerpt from “After the Solstice” in EDGES by Donna Pucciani. First published in Flint Hills Review.

After the Solstice

. . . The world

is a color impossible to paint,

a music soundless, without fanfare.

Night still settles in early . . .

–Excerpt from “After the Solstice” in EDGES by Donna Pucciani. First published in Flint Hills Review.

After the Solstice

We huddle indoors, remembering

past winters, old holidays, and all those

who look down on us from the violet

dusk of heaven.

–Excerpt from “After the Solstice” in EDGES by Donna Pucciani. First published in Flint Hills Review.

After the Solstice

Every day, more light, they say, and yet

sky smothers earth like an old pillow.

Squirrels hide in clumps of leftover leaves.

–Excerpt from “After the Solstice” in EDGES by Donna Pucciani. First published in Flint Hills Review.