New Poem: Montague Book Mill

This poem is a love letter to the Montague Book Mill, a place where books, music, food, and the sound of moving water come together in quiet defiance of speed and algorithms. It reflects on decades of personal connection and the enduring joy of getting lost on purpose.

By a river that refuses to hush, where the dam keeps time with a steady rush, a red mill leans into weather and years, holding more stories than counting appears. You find it by trying, by missing a turn, by letting the signal bars quietly burn. Gravel announces you've come far enough, the water says welcome in river-wide rough. Inside, the floors creak a knowing hello, as if every footstep's a tale they all know. The shelves don't align the way logic insists, they wander like thoughts that refuse to be kissed. Here books don't behave, they migrate and hide, they wait to be found by the curious-eyed. You reach for one spine, another one calls, and time loses grip on its minutes and walls. I've played here with bands, let the songs find their way, worked long-ago tables where plates held the day. Between chords and chapters the truth still remains, this place understands how attention sustains. The river keeps reading beneath every room, a low steady voice pushing sentences through. And up by the windows with coffee and bread, ideas slow down and decide to be read. If books are not needed, that's part of the joke, we need them like air once the world's finally spoke. The mill knows the secret, stays stubbornly still, a home for the lost and the willingly thrilled.