Spinning

The windmill does its work.
Don’t ask me how. I am not mechanical enough
to understand how it follows the wind,
no matter what direction, or how stormy.,
and day after day, pumps water, reliable and sure.

I should understand better.
I am made that way, blowing with the winds,
unteathered to the things that ground me,
And yet, the work gets done.
The holy water beneath your soul
rises.

It is magic. Both the windmill and me.
I understand both just enough
to appreciate the the genius
that made us both. Not enough
to know.

About this poem

Isnt it amazing how we manage to function in the midst of storms?

I almost called this one “Faith”, but “Spinning was more accurate.

The picture was taken just over the state border from my house, in Hebron, NY.

Tom