The Pilgrimage: Part 3 / Phillip Neal Tippin
Living the tech throws of engine
Mistake made, confusion of birth
Labor missed by trying to enter again
Pain gained not a winded wisp worth,
Nicodem us.
Reinventing the wheel is abasing, futile
Rediscovering the wheel is world’s apart
Child’s wonder in a father’s affirming
No rebuttal, nor worthless, amateur muse
Each may delight to find out the marvelous
At April’s Pitch,
Daffodil and hyacinth spring
As also the softwooded do,
Beguiling even a maple or two,
Yet, I wonder if it’s too good
To be true.
April is the snowiest month
For it blows and blooms in white.
May upon April
The year grows
And finds its life
On the bud of the fore.
Whetted thrum of a rain finch dart.
April weighs winter wanting.
From winter day, May
Jumped straight to summer
With only spring in the eves.
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