A Windmill Makes a Statement


You think I like to stand all day, all night,

all any kind of light, to be subject only

to wind? You are right. If seasons undo

me, you are my season. And you are the light

making off with its reflection as my stainless

steel fins spin.


On lawns, on lawns we stand,

we windmills make a statement. We turn air,

churn air, turning always on waiting for your

season. There is no lover more lover than the air.

You care, you care as you twist my arms

round, till my songs become popsicle


and I wing out radiants of light all across

suburban lawns. You are right, the churning

is for you, for you are right, no one but you

I spin for all night, all day, restless for your


sight to pass across the lawn, tease grasses,

because I so like how you lay above me,

how I hovered beneath you, and we learned

some other way to say: There you are.


You strip the cut, splice it to strips, you mill

the wind, you scissor the air into ecstasy until

all lawns shimmer with your bluest energy.