Coiling the Energy

On blunt edges, speak. Hollow out the wheel of flowing windmill slurs and words still in their buckets Dripping, overflowing silver into hydraulic rivers on their way to mirror seas. Worn down wood to hold the world of all you want to say Just now, speak. Let the power of sustenance cool the feet of flaxen haired children in a spark of the sun on the edge of the sugared bank They'll hear your hum, your rhythm and nod their heads with a thought that the wind might pick up at any moment. Creaking mechanics jar the mind to better days of oils slicking the wheels and yet you still run. You still speak. And the town lights up all it's peppered white street lights with your energy. Little pops of heat against midnight's cold breath. Children learn to read by the strung taffy sap pulled through wires no longer touched by your electrified water. And the sea pulls all it's soul together in the eagerness to taste the warmth from your river's mouth. All from your spinning wheel with blunt edges worn to perfection from gentle persuasion and winsome words. The whole town holds their breath, the wheels shine liquid wood, and you speak.