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Blowing in the Wind

April brings the opening of the Mid-America Windmill Museum for another exciting tourist season. Windmills awaken memories of growing up in the country listening to their songs and watching the blades turn in the wind. Poets have long been writing about these magnificent marvels of wood and steel. As you tour the museum, take a moment and ponder the words of these poets and remember a time when...

The Old Windmill

Across the broad expanse of meadowland,

Its profile boldly etched against the sky

How stubbornly the once proud windmill stands,

Defending still its right to live or die.

All else has vanished, the barns and silo too,

Evoking from the heart nostalgic scenes

Of long ago when the windmill was new

But now it stands alone and dreams its dreams.

Sometimes it dreams of meadows parched and dry,

Of anxious eyes that watched and hoped and yearned;

Of fervent thankful prayers and joyous cries,

When once again the wheel began to turn.

So let it dream and may it ever be

A link that binds with yesterday

For as a sentinel guarding memories

The old windmill has earned its right to stay

Oleta Maddox Harris


15 steel blades reaching

Into the Autumn skies catching

Winds kicked up

By September storms.

Hoisted above a homestead resting

On the Midwestern prairie praying

That water can be drawn

From beneath the hard sod.

Windmill's wheel is turning,

For all the seasons feeding

Barren land creating Their own Garden of Eden.

Scott Sprunger

A Windmill Talks

When I was a young lad

My grandparents had a windmill

I'd sit and listen to it talk

And never get my fill.

It would knock and groan

As the blades whirled above me

A creak here and a rattle there

It was something amazing to see.

The sucker rod rattled going up

And sighed going down

How could this happen I wondered

As the windmill went round and round.

But it paid no attention to me

Sitting there watching that show

As I listened to all of that noise

From a pipe water did flow.

The water filled a large metal tank

The overflow ran into the milk room

Where cans of cool, creamy milk sat

Waiting for the milkman that afternoon.

The water flowed on to a pond

Where farm animals drank their fill

What an amazing contraption it was

That old noisy clanking windmill.

Robert J. D. Rayber

Created by Sara Hobson April, 2022

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