Water Mill

A churning force
Between the bottom of my ribs and esophagus
Tells me I am poised properly.

Long have I felt the stirring sensation,
Like boiling hot water
In the kettle of my torso.

And yet,
Today
It is different.

Not boiling;
Pushing.

Like palms on a revolving door,
The waters of my ego, heart, and voice
Work against the paddles
Of a wooden wheel,
Which grinds the grain into flour.

My mighty river might just feed this whole town.

And better yet,
The river does not dry.

She will flow,
Whether the millstones are in place or not.