September 3, 2013


A drive through central Pennsylvania yesterday led to my writing the poem below.

Wind turbines are a common sight in rural Pennsylvania these days, and one often sees them emerge from behind a mountain, perched atop a more distant ridge. Such a visual experience led me the compose the first two lines of my latest poem as I drove by. I thought about the poem throughout the rest of the day and finished it this morning.

The wind-driven, power-generating devices that seem to be cropping up everywhere are properly called wind turbines, but many people think of them as windmills, even though they have no direct involvement in milling. In any case, “windmill” was the word that came to mind as a row of the tall devices peeked out from behind the nearest mountain.


Windmill, windmill—
White blades over hill,
Turning slowly, seldom still,
Captive of the zephyr’s will.

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