The Pilgrimage: Part 2 / Phillip Neal Tippin
Historical scientism
Beguiles, dreams subjugate
Fallen reason, fallow imaginations
Of future, project.
To delight in the face of it
Take to the oak hills partridged aloft
For there are quiet sounds to enjoy
Ruminating floor and walls
Which grant my passing frame.
Noble blendings
I fish, follow, reflect in
The streams of
Persons and place.
Avail myself of this wind
To sail past the point
I meant to make in turn.
The soft green scene
Is no careworn thing.
I had morn’d the dead-end
Trodden sod, which is lost
Upon the all-willing Spring.
I have received that cup
Of cold water as one
Of the least of these
By one who would ask
When?
Diviner of feeling, so gives
Both air and skin
Takes up the gift to bear
Both lash and tear
If hands are left the crust of the day
And with that lay a table for two
What does one expect
But to mumble
At best
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