The Grind

Don’t you hear the stiddy grindin’ uv the luscious cider mill? Don’t you see the ol’ horse windin’ in the early mornin’ still? Can’t you taste the juicy drippin’s as they gurgle from the squeeze? Can’t you smell the golden pippins as they splatter in the cheeze? Git your straws an’ git your bonnets, come on Nell an’ come on John; how kin poets grind out sonnets when the cider mill is on!

c. Sept. 20, ‘09