Tilting Windmills 
Stark masts, like remnants of a forest fire,
With broken vanes that hang like ragged leaves,
Creak gently in the nascent evening breeze;
The winds strum faint laments upon the wires,
Humming coal-voiced tunes of old desires.
As I haul the fraying cable through the sheave,
It seems to me the world takes pause to grieve
One moment at night's border, then retires.
The tilting windmills sway upon their pads,
Damaged by neglect and lost beliefs,
And nothing that I have, or ever had,
Gives me to hope that there may be surcease;
Yet, even though these thoughts have made me sad,
They've also brought a wounded sort of peace.