This is you, the ever-winding mill
covered in a blanket of moss, faded with age
tickled by the tips of dried wheat
dunking hands into cold river water
for the power, the baker, his flour and bread
the sourdough that fills our stomachs to the brim–
the only thing I am ever hungry for–
sometimes on sale, never out of stock
always produced by the same, ever-turning mill
What will it be today?
