Tag Archives: gardening

Digging Out the Daisies

. . . Dug into the dark region

between an old forsythia

and a yew planted to hide

the elbows of rusty pipes,

they risk everything to find . . .

a new communion.

–Excerpt from “Digging Out the Daisies” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). Published in Hawaii Pacific Review and The Cresset.

Hedges

The hedges have needed

pruning for some time,

craving the blades

of rusted shears,

the freshness of trimmed twigs

and raw branches that heal

in the sweetest of seasons.

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

Dahlias

Today I looked at the photographs

of last summer’s dahlias, brash faces

crowding a London garden with lemon

and magenta, a folly of profusion.

How I needed those deep colors

turning to the sun, breaking through

the pinpoint English rain . . .

–excerpt from “Dahlias” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective/purple flag, 2015). First published in The New Writer.

Rockery

The gardens have squandered their riches

on an early spring, and now lie withered

and spent. The heather, of course,

still laughs its happy lavender

beside pink camellias blanched in the rain.

Too early for the rhododendrons

to come clambering down the hillside,

raucous and wild  . . .

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

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.

Splinter

From the woodpile you came to me . . . .

Buried deep in my index finger,
a cantor in the form of a needle
sings a miniscule elegy to itself,
a tiny song of reckoning.

–excerpt from “Splinter” in To Dip Darjeeling at Dawn by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago 2011). First published in Poesia.

Splinter

from Splinter

Buried deep in my index finger,

a cantor in the form of a needle

sings a miniscule elegy to itself,

a tiny song of reckoning.

–excerpt from “Splinter” in To Sip Darjeeling at Dawn¬† by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective 2011). First published in Poesia.