what drives this, people wonder, near the sea
it stands, a tower with huge arms, there, on the ground.
Thoughts are the force that drives our big windmill,
an endless song is sung and travels with its arms,
it’s our love, this mill and may it never stand there, still
while eros and his little helpers flaunt their charms,
and while inside the mitochondria lives the spark
that, like Prometheus did ignite in us the fire,
we shall have touch and perfect vision in the dark,
a secret room in our mill, our private spire.
And once inside we hear the murmur of the breeze
it can be humid and the heat makes chambers swell,
distinctive movements as the summer’s spirits tease.
We have ourselves and our windmill has no bell.
For my spiremate whose middle name is Pinnacle
and whose distinctive interior taste and design
made a warm home of the spire.