Tag Archives: autumn

Always

the same sadness,

those Indian Summer days

bringing a rush of heat

and the final moisture

of flower and leaf.

–Excerpt from “Always” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016).

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Dahlias

. . . It seems just yesterday

that small, fat English robins

fluffed out their ruby breasts

among the willows, swallows swarmed

over scissortail meadows and, awaiting

the certain death of the hoarfrost, dragonflies lit,

iridescent, on dahlias that could not decide

whether to be purple or red.

–excerpt from “Dahlias” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag Press, 2014). First published in The New Writer.

Fallen

The leaf, deckle-edged, heart-shaped,

lies between puddle and cracked pavement,

brown-rimmed, red at the core.

She cannot return to the tree . . .

–excerpt from “Fallen” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag Press, 2014). First published in PoetryMagazine.com.

The Cranes

. . . The high-pitched lunacy

of their gargled laugh

lights up the forest below

that has all but lost its gold

in autumn’s dizzying wind.

–excerpt from “The Cranes” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag Press, 2014).  First published in Soundings East.

Hedges

. . . Hedges thrive on violence,

love the happy hand

that cuts them down,

the oftener the better,

wielding edges sharp

as the song of the lark.

Cut now. You’ve hesitated

long enough . . . .

–excerpt from “Hedges” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective/purple flag, 2015). First published in Poetry East.

When I Die

In autumn, may death surprise me

as I prepare for winter, store garden tools

in the garage, exchange cotton for wool,

listen for the heater’s low rattle,

put the kettle on for tea….

–Excerpt from “When I Die” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, 2013). First published in JAMA.

Lost Season

Soon grey-veined winter will burrow

into the violet heart of things,

camouflaged behind the shed

filled with garden tools. The ground

smells cold as an airport floor.

–Excerpt from “Lost Season” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, 2013). First published in Caveat Lector.