Tag Archives: rain


came blundering in today

through rain-battered sills,

shutters banging in the violet night,

and the fists of half-closed clouds

pounding the windows . . .

–Excerpt from “Dawn” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Stride Magazine.


Storm after Drought

Last night, when rain stroked

the scarred earth, entering the cracks

with small invasive hands,

and clouds sang the cantos

of momentary loss, shaking the trees,

we lay in our beds breathless,

feeling relief creep through our bodies

feet first . . .

–excerpt from “Storm after Drought” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective/purple flag, 2015). First published in After Hours.

One Kind of Rain

“The devil’s beating his wife,” mother drawls,

leaning over the rain-dusted windowsill

when yellow sun slices silver

and a breeze blows sudden as a barroom brawl . . .

–excerpt from “One Kind of Rain” in Jumping Off the Train by Donna Pucciani (Orchard House Press, Washington 2007). First published in Coffee House.


from Purification

What river can wash us clean, to the essence?

Bone, flesh, hair, sweat, consciousness,

from crying infant to bent elder, are all we have.

Only death peels us back, layer by layer, to the core,

just like the cat, whose ninth life claims her

at the garden gate, where she has crept,

scented like rain.

–excerpt from “Purification,” in To Sip Darjeeling at Dawn by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective 2011).