Observed

Standing at the edge of the pond,
it's a two sun day.

The air is sweating.
Muscular greys canter across the sky.

The rocky horizon
makes the spirit level drunk.

Trees lean on the hot air,
plumb line right oblique.

A cardinal sits burning
in the green pine.

It is pointless to sweep today,
split ends from the broom litter the floor.

Brown colored ink on the ecru paper
makes these words seem old.

Then silence screams the senses awake
to the reality of not thereness.

Renascence

He looked about before crossing the road,
then leapt the fence
immersing himself in the crush of grapes
of the gnarled old vines of Tuscany.
I, too, am classico, superiore,
not that inferior stuff of the straw covered flask.
How could he doubt on this night,
in these hills, under the blessing of this sky?
The silver bowl moon poured wisdom,
while Orion's belt cinched a millefiori of stars.
He ignored the wind intoning
Gregorian chants of grace and understanding.
He wasn't in the mood for that.
His mind kept ploughing the events of the day.
How could they, how dare they?
Colleagues and peons, bah!
And what kind of lover was she?
As his anger rose from gut to throat,
needing to roar in revenge,
he felt the hand of Lorenzo,
the magnificent presence,
quelling the fury within.
He saw Dante and Machiavelli embrace
in the house of Aries.

Last Season

In this last season
the sap wearies to its roots.

Leaves scatter carelessly
tumbling along the haggard ground.

Tired branches sway akimbo
beside the bent but still sturdy trunk.

Pale bruised bark hangs in sheets
paper chattering the story.

The annual rings
petrify into history.

Winter of sadness.
She's leaving and I've lost my
rose colored glasses.

^

Biography

Don Burns lives in Coral Springs, Florida. After working many years in laboratory medicine in the fields of genetics and immunology, he now enjoys wallowing in his mid-life crisis.