For Aaron

 

      His mind was like a windmill,
   In need of oil from time to time,
      But there was only He to tend it,
   No one else would make the climb,
      Up that towering imagination –
   One to match the sprawling view,
     While spinning gold from dusty breezes,
   As only poets and windmills do…

©2005, Rick Vanderpool
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
 

Them Ol' Windmills

     
Them ol’ windmills have seen it all,
For a hundred years, standing tall;
For a hundred winters, a hundred springs,
Them ol’ windmills have sure seen some things…

Them ol’ windmills have snagged the wind,
For a hundred summers, end to end;
When the ground was parched, and the herd was dry,
Them ol’ windmills just milked the sky…

Them ol’ windmills have felt the force,
As a thousand northers ran their course;
Or stood knee-deep in dust or flowers,
Them ol’ windmills know God’s powers…

Them ol’ windmills have witnessed the dances
Of countless stars, o’er countless ranches;
And with countless hues, each sundown and sunrise,
Them ol’ windmills salute, as clouds paint the skies…

Them ol’ windmills are like a beacon,
A comforting sight with blades a-creakin’;
A welcome spot for man and beast,
To ease the torment of ice or heat…

Them ol’ windmills have noted the change,
How cowboys live and work the range,
In pick-ups or horseback, fresh water’s a must,
And them ol’ windmills deliver, in spite of more rust…

Them ol’ windmills stand weathered, but hardly forlorn,
Through a century of all that wind, well-borne;
As from fearful blast to playful gust,
Them ol’ windmills draw life from beneath the dust…

©2005, Rick Vanderpool
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.