Circles
I heard a rabbi
on the radio talking of God,
the great Circle from which
we humans are not excluded
but dwell in our own
small circle inside.
Are we like eggs
laid by the God-woman
in a cosmic nest beyond
human making?
Thunder will call us forth
into the galaxy of Being.
Lightning
will illumine our vision
for one split-second
of stellar wisdom,
the mysticism of unfulfilled
desire forever encased
in the divine. Love,
loneliness and astonishment
are our lot, ice and fire,
fact and fantasy, the benediction
of weeds and roses living together
in a secret garden, never touching.
Bionote
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in such diverse journals as Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, and Journal of Italian Translation. Her seventh and most recent book of poems is EDGES.
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