No birdsong today,
just soundless grey drizzle,
and the exhalation of a turquoise
umbrella turned inside out,
writing in a sudden whiff of wind.
The library is shut
because it is Wednesday.
We’ll stay indoors,
huddled over cups of tea
and raisin-studded scones.
We turn on the radiators,
let the air blossom into steam.
The socks will dry quickly,
hanging like earthbound bats
in the graveyard of household wash.
We give thanks for time and breath,
a clicking hip, arthritic knees,
a Guardian from the local shop,
a crossword puzzle with shared
clues hanging between us
in the dampening air.
Author’s commentary: The inspiration for the poem was a visit to the north of England last April with my husband, whose family all live in the Manchester area. It's become my second home.
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry on four continents in such diverse journals as Shi Cha Poetry, The Pedestal, Acumen, Poetry Salzburg, and Italian Americana. Her work has been translated into Chinese, Japanese, Italian and German. Her most recent book of poems is EDGES.