There, amidst the dappled reach,

Beneath the willow bending low,

As endless waters flow and froth

Over pebbles, like a broth,

A walkway through the wood once brought

Both stranger, neighbor to the door.

 

The mill, now silent, stood full-bright

And changed the fortunes of the grain;

From field-grown fodder to flour there;

Or was it wood to lumber bare?

So far long-gone and legend now,

That none can recall its tale for sure.

 

The stone that once drew grimly ‘round

Now leans upon the bank, reposed.

A cedar thrust up through its core

To mock the labor it once bore,

Through snow and bluster, weather foul–

In endless daily grind no more.

 

Now shines the sun through willow branch.

And so, the rain in vernal dance.

Yet grind the season round the year.

And make life, so daily vivid true,

Into mere powder, dust, and grist,

As sun and globe spin as they do,

Spare little trace of those before.