A Windmill on the Prairie

From From My Window and Other Poem. Pine Hill Press, 2005.

If I could paint a picture of the finest place on earth,
it would never be of buildings, pay no matter what they’re worth.
There’d be no canvas covered with a village, neat and quaint;
…a windmill on the prairie is what I’d choose to paint.

Now, you may think it silly that anyone could see
beauty in a windmill, but they mean a lot to me.
Like a lighthouse to a sailor, they’re a symbol of the West
of life that’s free and easy, a lifestyle that’s the best.

To me there’s nothing better than to be out there with God,
smell the clover-scented grass, or raindrops on the sod;
to hear the rustling of the trees, the lowing of the herds;
and watch a hawk a-circlin’, then be chased away by birds.

A friend to man and beast alike, they never cease to work,
bring forth the fresh cold water from far beneath the earth.
When evening shadows lengthen, like a tower in the night,
a windmill in the sunset is such a wondrous sight.

You can have the Eiffel Tower or the Vatican in Rome;
sky scrapers in the cities, or the fanciest of homes.
The simple upright beauty that will put them all to test
is a windmill on the prairie when the sun sets in the West!

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