Silently The Windmill Turns Poem by Juan Olivarez

Silently the windmill turns,
Tirelessly without complaints.
As the drought stricken land, tearfully yearns,
For the September rains.

The grasses brown and brittle die,
As the windmill gazes down.
Raising supplications to the cloudless sky,
For a blessing on the tortured ground.

Only the live oaks still sport the green,
The strong always survive.
Though the leaves sport no healthy sheen,
They still are imbued with life.

Silently the windmill slowly turns,
Filling up the cement pools.
As the chaparral grudgingly dies and burns,
Reduced to nothing more than fuel.

But the deer and cattle, will drink their fill,
And not once wonder why.
Or what omnipotent retained the windmill,
They just drink, and gaze up high.


(7/16/11-Alton Texas)