Don Burns


Do nightjars stall time
as they dine alfresco in the dark?
Or does time set its shoulder
to destiny's fog?

An inchworm webs along
branch to twig,
branch to twig,
stopping only at the last leaf.
It all runs up and down the year
touches a toe to the summer solstice,
then races through the equinox
to tag the winter chill.

Time dances a bolero,
the black notes being the richest,
though it's much too late in the day
to change a note in the Requiem.

"You're old but useful,"
our three-year old son
told his mother
on her twenty-sixth birthday.
Now, compliments
are ever welcome.
To be useful is to be good,
but old is always touchy.

Beware the barkeep
calling, "Time, gentlemen."


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