White Cotton Sacks
The old stone gristmill stood like a monolith,
its massive wooden wheel creaking and turning
dipping into the swift waters of a dammed-up creek.
Inside, everything was covered in a fine white dust
amidst a cacophony of cogs, gears, and pulleys.
Most notably, there was a giant granite stone that turned,
crushing grain into powder.
It was a dangerous place for kids to be,
we weren't allowed to hang around the workings.
Pa and all of the neighboring farmers
brought bushels of wheat there to be milled,
keeping the miller busy filling white cotton sacks with flour.
A pond adjacent to the mill fueled its workings,
and we'd gather on its banks for picnic lunches.
As kids, we'd be allowed to swim or fish
while pa and the other men did all the work.
In my mind's eye, I see him dusted white as a ghost,
exchanging smiles while sharing a joke with the miller.
Today you can only imagine what it was like,
for it now only exists in dreams or picture shows.
It was a time that time will never repeat,
when farmers gathered at the gristmill
as both a necessity and a communal event.
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