The Wind Mill

"Turning" - Eva Jaku, 2023

"Sometimes, I ponder upon the wind mills,

the breeze of which

pushes me back

and makes me think of its imperfect permanence.

One who grinds the wheat,

and one who savors the meal.

Sometimes, I wish I was both,

making myself a champion of the challenging artifact,

but it is a puzzle that is beyond even the victor of the Sphinx.

Grains of flour fall from my calloused hands

like snow on a dreary day

and make me think of how I long for the bitter cold

to pull me forward.

There is nothing quite like the snap of winter

to remind you that you are not just one or the other

but a human who can be both.

Alas, it is a cold day. Come now and open the door. 

The mill has thick, impenetrable walls,

perfect for preservation

and contemplation.

Come now and see

what makes the windmill turn

for years, and years, and years."

This piece was inspired by an inside joke me and my friend had. We would always just mysteriously mention windmills with no context behind it.  In hindsight, it wasn't that funny, but even now, it makes me think about what it could mean. In our jokes, the windmill grew to symbolize time. It's the same here in my own poem, but I decided to expand on it in a way that wasn't just mysterious or off-putting. I wanted to apply it to me--and maybe give it some more meaning that others could grow fond of, too.

I'm not going to lie, though. The second stanza is probably my least favorite piece of the poem. It's so confusing, which I'm not surprised about, since I kind of wrote it on a whim. If I connected it better to the rest of the ideas in my poem, I feel it would be more understandable, at least until it's tastefully ambiguous.

It was fun to write. I like to read--and write, of course--pieces of creative prose or poetry that address the fearfully untouched and bring them to life. In this case, I'm personifying time in relation to life or mankind's duration. For us, it always seems to come down to what we're doing with our lives, what we're going to do with our lives, and how they'll end. What role did we play until we left this world? That's probably one of the most worrisome thoughts to entertain at our ages, so maybe I find some solace in exploring it through a whimsical, fictional lens.

Whether or not this is really true, I think I'd like to explore my own creativity through this theme. Maybe poems, maybe prose. Either way, though, writing like this helps me interpret the unknown, the feared, and the hidden in a way I truly enjoy.