Up on the pond
the old mill wheel
turns in the stream
turning back time

Until the old wagons
along the road
come back to life

Hauling in this year's
Barley and corn,
sweet oats, alfalfa
and winter wheat

To crack and grind
between running stone
and bed stone

Coaxing the grain
from the chaff
like manna
from the grass

And into cornmeal,
flour and bran
Dreams of bread
Rising in the oven

on winter mornings
when light frost
covers the stubble
of the reaped fields.

Ages of fasts,
the breaking of fasts,
times of dearth
and rich harvests
wheel through our histories
like the waterwheel itself

Still turning the stones.
Filling our emptiness.
Easing our consciousness.