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.


All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2020-2021 by Phillip Neal Tippin. All rights reserved.

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