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 ...
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