Windmill Whispers
The white windmill of languor is a ferris wheel,
Gently spinning, slicing up melodies.
Soft tunes that my eyes can… hear?
They will be silenced.
These old green flowerless meadows taste fresh,
And smell like the indoor aroma of a kitchen.
It makes Nora feel uneasy,
So she shapeshifts into a kitten.
Everybody has a pre-disposed phobia of cats,
Even this place, Youthful Meadows.
I digress, back to the windmill…
If the windmill oscillates faster,
It must prefer the higher wind speeds.
Carpe Diem; the windmill is seizing the heck out of today.
“Ignore-her-Nora!”
The unhinged windmill mutes the tune to whisper my nickname.
Image credit: pixabay.com
This seemingly random poem is in response to the NaPoWriMo list challenge found here
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