A Wren Sings in an Idle Mill

The idle mill has oxidized,
weeds and rust claim empty ovens.
Smokestacks devour themselves;
row after row of broken brick
falling, filling
falling, filling
like minds gone dim.
Memories and old dreams
make us realize our innocence.
A tinge of sadness at the smallness
of our might have beens.
Then in the wasteland
of baser thoughts, of sidewalks cracked
and old cars rusting on cinder blocks,
a wee wren boldly lands and sings.
Amidst the ugliness of an idle mill
where empty spaces are filled with wind,
we glimpse the pure, the beautiful,
the benevolent touch of God’s hand.

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