The God of Our Farm Had Blades


and a rudder.  All our acres
begged its pardon. Merest
breezes made its rusty flower
turn and whine and shudder.  


It’s wooden arm a weathered
stump, the god of our farm
no longer pumped the well
that once it lorded power over.


It belonged to another order.
On silent nights in summer,
my windows open, many times
its vocal powers found me deep


in dreams and hauled me up.  
Unearthly alarm! what ache!
How the vane would groan,
the rotor churn, and with what


moan when a good gust came!
It scared me to the bone, as if
some inner tower of my own,
for an unknown water, yearned.