The Mill

One can hear a tea kettle whistling
and the sound of wooden rockers
on a round sewn rug.

Alive with cobwebs,
the morning breeze
makes them sway.

A sewn time piece
by piece in a circle.

She rubs the counter clockwise until
the shine is proud of it's reflection.

Mint leaves plucked and brought in,
one chewed.

Currents are plump and ready, eager, bobbing.

A single inchworm moves in the delight of the moment.

© Sonja J. Phinney 1989