Donna Pucciani

What idle hour

offers such astonishing
emptiness, unsaid syllables
laced among pillows or trees?

Morning is too bright.
Sunshine brings the iridescence
of the dragonfly, breakfast motes,
a table set in yellow,
newspapers, practical things.

Noon exacerbates
the clarity of light, the fullness
of daylilies, their red tongues lolling
among green fronds.
Night, on the other hand,
hides everything
in its claustrophobic cloak.

It’s dusk that tenders
the bobbing boat of consciousness,
pale against a darkening pier,
holds a heart without communion,
a mind gone astray.

Only twilight keeps
the distillation of past lives. Fireflies
blink. Children are called in for bed.
Life remains untidy
as a pile of dusty books,
strewn laundry.

Pick a blue blossom
from an invisible tree
while moon, owl and star
lose transparency, become palpable
in the barely lingering light.

Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry world -wide in such diverse journals as Poetry Salzburg, Istanbul Literary Review, Shi Chao Poetry, Journal of Italian Translation, and Stand. Her work has been translated into Italian, Chinese, Japanese and German. She has been nominated numerous times for the Pushcart Prize and has won awards from the Illinois Arts Council, the National Federation of State Poetry Societies, Poetry on the Lake, and other organizations. Former Vice President of the Poets Club of Chicago, her seventh and most recent book of poems is Edges.