Windmills
Meredith Moench
Windmills—
six line on a hill’s ridge:
two standing still,
their three silver arms
frozen,
juxtaposed (their arms shooting to the light-crested
heavens,
peach with the morning rain mist),
four turning
slow,
like a clock’s hands creeping,
declaring Time—
from the top of a hill.
In their silent strokes
saying,
“look where Time has brought me”
from nuclear mushrooms
and solar panels,
back—
to wind in wheels
on a hillside,
chiming with the
church bells’
toll.
