Windmills

The graceful lumber

Of the spokes

Which seem to slow almost

To stall before

They rise

Their nodding heads

Like toys bobbing in back car windows -

For theirs is the playful motion of the earth,

Which even sleeping slides

From moment

to moment -

Which is the smallest thing which does not slide out of itself

Though all life is just a moment

sliding from itself

In lazy fecundity they spin

Tilling atoms from the ether,

Divine fingers trowelling jewels from the sky

Marooned at sea

They stand sombre

But never quite morose

For they face the waves together

And do not seek to quiet them

But speak with them in whispers

Which form a gentle harmony,

Their energy the symphony we hear

When we stop conducting

And listen to the silent song that always plays