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.

When a man knows what he is about
And does it
And is done.

More greens
Fewer pickled things.

Like lichen lines,
The wild thyme,
And Ponderosa

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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