I listen for crystal 

      chimes of running 

streams, though 

    none ever lived here, 

no fragrances to 

        ponder save the 
dust of decaying 

      grains in a field 

 untended.

Condemned to 

          neglect, windmill 

  remains standing, a 

      statistical artifact 

erected in prime 

               dimensions 

 paused in 

       finite abeyance

at the portal to 

non-beingness, 

unable to grieve.