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The
red-orange eye of Texas sun
Pulls its way up
In the star-spotted
Morning sky.
Out of the east
Pours the heat
Of a dust-dry
August day.
A soft wind
Catches blades
Of the old windmill,
Rough-crafted on
Wooden tripod legs.
Set spinning
By the wind,
The old mill
Whispers a secret song,
A song of wooden wheels,
Pipelines and steel.
Oil riggers’ voices
Across flat, hot, hard land.
The windmill pulled and pumped
Cold water from deep
Beneath hard rock soil
Of limestone and sand.
Crafted by hands
More intent on purpose
Than design,
It was meant more for
An oil rigger’s thirst
Than a farmer who struggled
To turn dust to dirt.
It now remains
Abandoned,
A sign of these
Texas times.
Aged and alone,
The old windmill’s
More of an epitaph
Than chiseled words
Left in smooth stone.
-10-
From the corner of her eye,
Emily watches the blinking
Of the sun,
Caught in the turning,
Spinning creaking,
And singing
Blades spun
By hot August winds.
The wind circles cast-
Only for a moment-
Emily back
To a time
Of another windmill,
A small gray, old house,
Other abandoned times,
And Other abandoned crimes.
Emily turns from the dust spotted
Window,
Glances at him,
And stares away again.
He pleads with her,
“If you ever loved me-
At all,
I mean at all,
Don’t leave me now.
Without a what,
Without a why…”
He stopped,
The sun caught his eyes.
He squinted,
More from her
Out the window stare,
Than from the morning glare.
"In this light she seems
More of a ghost,"
He thought-
A shadow in the sun stream
Of morning air-
More of dream he
Just couldn’t capture,
Than the woman he loved.
The woman he struggled
To know.
“Understanding you,
What you want from me.
What you want of me?
What I mean to you!
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