A solitary age old windmill stands alone,
outstretched wooden arms, steady turn.
Against the sky where the winds are blown,
One sees the farmer's life's lesson and learn.
His home sits in valley at the windmill's base,
a humble cottage built of stone and beam.
A serene, a silent and peaceful place,
where life unfolds like water in a stream.
The farmer rises with the morning light,
to greet the day with weathered weary hands.
He watches as the windmill's sails take flight,
and tends the gentle, yielding waiting lands.
At dusk, he sits upon his wooden chair -
and watches as the sun begins to sink.
The windmill turns in cool evening air,
as twilight paints the world in purple ink.
The windmill moves throughout the years,
being a constant in the everchanging sky.
It witnesses the laughter and his tears -
and watches as the seasons pass him by.
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