Grist

Grist for the mill of quiet mornings,
Golden kernels waiting in the sack,
Each grain a promise, each husk a story—
The miller’s hands turn patience into crackle.

In the stone‑wheeled hush, the corn sighs low,
Flour spirals down like whispered snow,
Dust motes dance in the sun’s soft gleam,
A rustic hymn to earth’s humble dream.

When the sack is empty and the floor is bare,
The echo lingers—sweet, sincere—
For every loaf that rises, warm and brown,
Begins as grist, in silence, profound.