Down by the sea it stands, like majesty <br />huge arms go round and round and round, <br />what drives this, people wonder, near the sea <br />it stands, a tower with huge arms, there, on the ground. <br /> <br />Thoughts are the force that drives our big windmill, <br />an endless song is sung and travels with its arms, <br />it's our love, this mill and may it never stand there, still <br />while eros and his little helpers flaunt their charms, <br /> <br />and while inside the mitochondria lives the spark <br />that, like Prometheus did ignite in us the fire, <br />we shall have touch and perfect vision in the dark, <br />a secret room in our mill, our private spire. <br /> <br />And once inside we hear the murmur of the breeze <br />it can be humid and the heat makes chambers swell, <br />distinctive movements as the summer's spirits tease. <br />We have ourselves and our windmill has no bell. <br /> <br /> <br />For my spiremate whose middle name is Pinnacle <br />and whose distinctive interior taste and design <br />made a warm home of the spire.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-windmill/
