by Sabine Sicaud
Fork in the road. The mill beckons to me.
It's not a windmill, but its wings
Shimmer the water with mute flutterings
And ducks as white as swans, doves that could be,
Each one, the Holy Ghost... Its little porch's
Space seems a church-front. Sunset, and the sky,
Torch-like, flares in its mullioned panes -flames, scorches..
The Mill"... Its only name known to the passerby.
Last updated March 19, 2023