Dahlias

by Donna Pucciani

Your favorite flower,
though I never knew why,
and you never could explain.
Their bright faces reflect the sun,
aflame in yellows and reds. They turn
from shadows, disrespect the dark.
They choose petaled light, fanning out
from a core of ochre, find the pink

of daybreak, the gold of noon,
the deepening crimson of summer
afternoons. They refuse to chase the night,
do battle with melancholy. Never lonely,
they inflict their inescapable cheer
even on those who prefer twilight, zodiac, moon.

They cling to coral, simply ignoring
the dark side of the garden. Never a backward glance
at mossed rock, the verdure of maple leaves
leaning low over the dank earth,
the overhang of roof and gutter gurgling
from last night’s rain, the dour ferns
sweeping the mulched paths.

They trumpet themselves, brash and loud,
ignore autumn, which will soon abscond
with their brilliance. They can no longer shrug off
impending winter like an old coat. The mandala
of their glorious October will stop spinning,
as one of us will have to do some day,
in the absence of the other. There will come
that infinitesimal, indefinable moment
when everything finishes.

Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, Agenda, ParisLitUp, Gradiva, Hawaii Pacific Review, and other journals. Her seventh and latest book of poetry is Edges.