The Pilgrimage: Part 10 / Phillip Neal Tippin
Sometimes I come on quiet feet
Among the glories wrapped in sleep.
Plagued by fault in every clime.
To myself:
Slow down
To how I want
To hear it read.
Satisfied
When a man knows what he is about
And does it
And is done.
More greens
Fewer pickled things.
Down-to-earth
Like lichen lines,
The wild thyme,
And Ponderosa
Pine.
The Poet rhymes
Sickness and sin.
You grace us
With the present.
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