Fall/Winter 2014

Don Burns


When you put your hand
then one gentle finger
to my mouth,
it was a way of saying,
for now,
we were accepting
the limits 
to the well of time.
You closed your eyes
to the empty bucket,
brushed a tear from your lashes
and pressed my hand
to your lips.
We dropped a coin,
heard a splash.
There would be more.

Don Burns’ poems have appeared in on-line and print journals. He is retired having done clinical research in medical genetics and immunology and lives in Coral Springs, Florida.



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