the mill

the mill wheel turns
and grinds
stone on stone
around and round
slowly pressing
down the husky grains
to soft fine powder

but those seeds that escape
the constant friction of the wheel
are left on stems
to blow and wave the sun down
and feeding birds
and insects perch
like crickets
in amongst the seed heads
left behind by scythe
and combine

these the beauty left
oh why does beauty
sacrifice itself
to the constant grinding of the wheel
when strength is found
in staying still
and swaying in these breezes

knock down the mill
and let the grain grow
free and blonde
on earth's soft headed hill