A Note On How This Mill Runs.

The tree does not begrudge the saw.
It stood a hundred years in rain and wind,
drinking in light it didn't pay for,
holding hillsides it was asked to hold,
and when it fell, it became a doorway,
a table, a house where someone sleeps.

The packet does not begrudge the wire.
It lives for less than a breath —
born, addressed, delivered, gone —
no funeral, no complaints filed —
and in that flicker it carries
a letter, a song, a voice saying I'm here.

Nothing useful lasts. That's the design, not the flaw.
The green becomes the beam.
The signal becomes the silence.

So we run the mill with gratitude —
for every tree that was planted on purpose,
for every packet that arrived on time,
for a world where things are given,
used well, and let go —
and for the One who thought of trees first,
and saw that they were good.