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?”
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