Tag Archives: seasonal poetry

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.

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Incremental

Snow descends

by thousands of flakes per second

 

random as thoughts, sawdust on a pub floor,

or gnats in summer along the canal.

 

If I were ten again,

I’d be running through them . . .

 

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

Summer’s Lease

The honeyed buzz of locusts

wrings desire from the night’s

dark wanting. Cradled

in summer, too hot to sleep,

they enter the rubbing of wings.

–excerpt from “Summer’s Lease” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag Press, 2014). Also published in Cairn and Briar Cliff Review.

From Mud

Light, touch, and early bud

are created anew. The days lengthen

out of the darkness . . . .

–excerpt from “From Mud” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago, 2013). First published in Iodine.

The First Day of Spring

. . . Oaks watch the tips of daffodils

making the cracked earth smile.

It has been a cold winter

and I am exhausted by hope . . . .

–excerpt from “The First Day of Spring” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago, 2013). First published in Bluestem.

From Mud

. . . the first small crocuses lip their way

in centimeters of palest purple

from tips first brown, then green.

They open the way mouths

prepare to kiss, or wax becomes flame.

–excerpt from “From Mud” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago, 2013).  First published in Iodine.

In winter, dawn

. . . Now is the time

for coffee, newspapers, a poem or two,

kisses leftover from the night,

the touching more important

than whether the sun will rise today.

–excerpt from “In winter, dawn” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago, 2013). First published in New Poetry Appreciation.