The future rolls itself out
like an old rug. Peacock feathers,
blood-red blossoms, golden fronds
lie prostrate down the middle.
The past is a moth-eaten journey
of steps and missteps. Exhausted,
the fringe bears tufts of desire,
the forlorn leavings of a too-long life.
Nights and days follow the footfall
of summers and winters hidden
in the foliage. Now, nothing
to talk about, no one to talk to
except plumes and patterns
fraught with recollection,
the worn-out wool
of a threadbare carpet.
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide 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.