Grand Moulin

The storm passed without trouble
           across the coast
About the interior, I know nothing
Whatever rain fell there
has not reached our country
marshy and green,
flat as a dry lake

as the ocean tomorrow, skies clear,
will be. Now I go to the mill
for tomorrow’s bread.
First, I’ll grind the wheat
Then, some leisure time
before I make the bread

Maybe a swim, since the storm
has passed. But that too is for tomorrow
whose pitch pines are more quiet
whose mill has been cleared of vines
and set spinning again