Donna Pucciani

 

 

 

Advent

 

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

darkness,

 

and bow under it, bow to it,

the unseen star.

 

 

 

 

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