The Pilgrimage: Part 30 / Phillip Neal Tippin

The Chorus is always
What I sang the First Time.”

My foot had almost stopped slipping
And then it slipped again.

Sense well
In this sense,
Draw attention.

Have a hand in laying the fire by
Split wood, gather from the stack’s
Further side, so as to leave some stock
Near the door for the next night’s fireside.

Time as the shrub to hide behind,
Grown a thicket, dense, to hedge my mind,
And now fickle fig’d, I’d fein not to hear
The call “Where (not when) are you?”

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s