At the Millpond
The millwheel will not turn again till spring
for Winter’s icy cold grip holds it firm.
She squeezes it like Her private plaything,
though Her crushing power is but short-term.
As shorter days subtly lengthened; the sun
slowly began to liquefy the ice.
And the waterwheel shook, and almost spun,
while the miller posted his asking price.
Whispers ran through the town from door to door,
the ice is breaking up at the millpond.
And housewives could soon buy flour once more,
for each village, and its mill shared a bond.
The millwheel shimmies free from Winter’s grip,
shuddering as the water level peaks.
And as pressure increases drip by drip,
the pond ice melts, and the wooden wheel creaks.
(Quatrain)
6/26/2018
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