“Old Sawmill” by Giorgio De Michele
blades of industry
edged with cut notches
the serrate of
terrible teeth
taught to tear out
dimensions of uniform
lumber from unlovely logs
timber felled to feed
screams of the sawmill
great riots of motion
tanned leather belt drives
turned through gearworks
by stout wood pole pistons
arranged autodidact
design rustic genius
resolved to convert
flowing water to energy
sees the mechanics of
magic in circular visions
the wheel the big wheel
it all starts with the wheel
never ending so long
as the impulse to build
pushes man to a purpose
From my book Small Noise
Poesy plus Polemics 
That you make the working of industry romantic confirms – not that confirmation is required – your unique gift with words.
LikeLiked by 1 person
thank you, mike
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love the way your words spill down the page like water in the mill stream.
LikeLiked by 1 person
what a lovely comment – thanks dearly
LikeLike
Ah, the fragrance of fresh sawn lumber! I can smell it in your verse . . .
LikeLiked by 1 person
I can still smell the sawdust that covered the floor of my parents’ small grocery
LikeLiked by 1 person
It lingers, doesn’t it . . .
LikeLiked by 1 person