Dark in the morning, and early light through a single window.
You can hear the old mill creak in the wind outside.
The water has dried up, no longer runs through sluices,
no longer turns the wheel that grinds the grain.
It is a museum piece now. All patina and wood
and pullies that are showing signs of dry rot, a speaking
of times that no longer exist, just the shell remaining,
what people see, more art than function. and yet, somehow
About this poem.
So much changes in our lives. Some people see what was. Less see what is. No matter, there is value in both.
PS: The picture was taken at the Hancock Shaker Villiage.