I saw an old man today
winding an old watch
twisting the stem back and forth
tightening its spring
so fragile a moment
time hanging on a thin wisp of coiled steel
giving the mechanism its life
each second’s tick counting
to the inevitable moment
when there are no fingers to wind
when its need has ended
and life for its creation ceases
Isn’t that our story too?
©2013, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 