WINDMILL ON A DUTCH PORCELAIN MUSIC BOX

The soul of anything has music,

its voice poised

against silence, its notes

a revolving force.

In creation, God assumes an image

to alter or suddenly destroy,

raising from the ruins new paradigms.

This windmill seems a lofty church—

but whose? Its cross of blades

creaks round like the vault of stars

circling the blue axis of the universe.

Water runs with water’s melodies,

angelic trumpets, harps.