The Grist Mill

The stone spun slowly to a stop as it has many times before, to be dressed one more time again; sharpened furrows where flower sifts like the sweat from labor's brow. The echoes of the wooden gears - now silent through the trees , where their chugging always rang. This time the runner stone lay still upon the bed, like the old miller at day's end, except not to rise again. The gears, once perpetual, now motionless, and the sack slung at day's end will bear the weight of yesterday's Loves and Labors ...