The Pilgrimage: Part 25 / Phillip Neal Tippin
A goodness drawn
From pen and paper.
I Keep scrupulous records of my debt
And overspending, Jeffersonian checking
Which mollifies a heart’s budget un-kept.
You will have been found to have
Smashed your face against the glass,
Window of your wasted spring,
For a fleeting view of self.
The sky is sharing of its upper air today
Bending low to give us a breath of spring.
There’s anticipation of rain in the pine
While the white irises bloom blind.
How can I face persecution
If I can’t Face pleasure?
Self as a shallow inland sea
Ever silted, filling in the deep.
To maintain my local culture
I dare not wash my face.
The moon let on
By walnut frond
To lightning bug
And fickle moth.