. . . 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.
. . . In future, we will recall these walks,
some prettier than others. The exquisite call
of the blackbird, trapped in a nondescript body,
sings delight from some scented corner
of mossed rock. We stop to listen . . .
–excerpt from “Rockery” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag Press, 2014). First published in Pulsar Webzine.
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.
Posted in Books, Journals, Poems
Tagged august, blooms, dahlias, flora, flowers, gardening, gardens, seasonal poems, summer