Morning fractures the darkness,

then divides itself among motes of sun.

Before reality filters dreams,

my father visits, his Parkinsonian tremors

meeting my mind’s lost reach for the past,

his square hands once spinning a tennis racket

or, eyes on the sky, readying his serve.

Dawn brings the visage of cousins

across an ocean. I breakfast while they lunch.

They will die without my farewell.

I send books in English for the children.

Years and miles fall apart like brittle bones,

broken toys, syllables of a harvest moon

turning tides into undertow.

Time now to rise from my bed

and chase the day which disappears ahead

like stars that die before we can catch them.

Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, is the author of seven books of poetry. She spends her covid days writing, playing piano, checking on her friends near and far, and participating in community dialogues on social justice issues. Her latest book is EDGES.