On Time

by Bruce Spang

Do you hear the soft ohhs in the mist?
These are sighs of God.

They do not matter to the man — late,
no doubt — who taps at his Rolex:

years tumble forward — already 2220,
2060; tomorrow flattens yesterday.

A solitary pigeon pecks at a crumb,
then flaps off, undulant in gray.

What whispers in this mist? — sighs
intoning,   too late, too late.

No matter, these are only lines of I – Ching,
little sticks of metaphor.