The Pilgrimage, Book II: Part 24 / Phillip Neal Tippin

I will not speak this language long,
Yet speak clingingly
To what it holds anon.

Maybe I iterated through your good taste,
And passing it by, in haste,
Have lost my only way.

When you bury Hope with a shovel
It feels you must be burying death.

A touch of the heat through the leaves,
But with this breeze, still, take your ease.

My thoughts, unwinnowed in wisdom,
Would rather resist a chaffing wind

All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2020-2022 by Phillip Neal Tippin. All rights reserved.

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