Once and again there are
symbols to see,
Quiet and alone they are in print or standing free.
Elegant and simplified sometimes, they are called logos,
Reaching around us with a simple embrace while life flows.
Windmill's of time's song, always turning,
Have we glimpsed the mastery of your learning?
Is there someway you in your shattered, shabby stance,
Can spin again the tales, while you still stand with circled lance?
You have cut through the charging, jerking, lurking wind,
Made it serve us as a friend.
No one gave you, your metal, because you arose so humble,
Dressed in the roughest of lumber, built with hands not to fumble.
In those days our grandfather rode alone and free,
Set a well, erected a windmill, asked no one to agree.
He didn't ask questions of some entity called I.H.S.
Didn't ride to town for taxes, tags for car insurance, to confess.
Simple windmill all that is left of a softer, more loving, sweet way,
I'm sorry to see you disappear from our landscape no longer to play,
With the elements while facing their bitter or soft refrain,
Turning, ever, and ever, not stopping to complain.