Windmills

by Justine C. Tajonera

The beach was paved
with windmills,
white and tall
stretching into
the horizon.

It was like I was
in a different world:
post-apocalyptic
Japanese anime
or Scandinavian coastline,
anywhere
but here.

Anything massive
or environmental
or a machine
that actually works
couldn't come
from
here.

Little faith,
accumulated losses,
a history of
disappointment
color these blank,
white windmills
of the North.

Like the blowing arm
of nature,
collectively unleashing
its amoral force,
circumstances threaten
to drown
my hope.

But an ember
remains.

It is slow to fan,
dragging in pace,
but it is there.
I hold out my hands
harnessing
what approaches.

Our time

will come.

(Nov. 4, 2009)
Contemplation on the windmills of Ilocos Norte