In school the nuns taught us
the colors of church vestments--
white for purity and feast days,
red for martyrdom, and green
for hope and for “ordinary time,”
the liturgical season when nothing
happens: Christmas has disappeared
in a snowy flash, and bells have tolled
the lily-white petals of Easter, now silent,
the dull stretch of days ahead
meant to be merely ordinary,
the quotidian boredom of stasis
after a purpled Lent, with hope hanging
on a blade of grass as the days wear on.
A verdant spring becomes summer’s drought
before the violet of Advent’s wilderness
arrives once again to glitter us
into stable and bright star.
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, The Pedestal, Voice and Verse, Acumen, Gradiva, and other journals. Her seventh and latest book of poetry is EDGES.