Donna Pucciani






Donna Pucciani


(Response to Steve Schroeder’s poem of the same title posted yesterday)


Hands can catch

water from a stream


for drinking or the gathering

of stones, or the feel of something


cold, pure, elemental.

Grasping the dark is harder.


Winter’s rough air

slips through outstretched fingers.


Unembraceable night

fills with wisps of wanting,


thoughts of old lovers, the dead

and dying, falling through space.


Our open palms hold only

lamentations. We await


the promise of fire, receive only



and bow under it, bow to it,

the unseen star.





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