Paul Warner


The farmers wife


Where is your windmill?
Trapped under the millers thumb?
Fat and rotund in your simple smock,
flour coated arms from kneading bread.

Ample busom uddering in the morning light,
the sun rises over the lake,
already reflecting your thoughts.
Broegle - like your day begins.

The warming air echoes the growing stench,
resounding, reverberating,
bouncing off my timpani.
The village awakes, children cry, swine herds bellow,
In the golden light.
The frosted grass fades away,
cows snort in a steamy nasal way,
so begins another day.

Submitted: Thursday, August 07, 2014
Edited: Saturday, August 09, 2014

Topic of this poem: philosophical


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