The Pilgrimage: Part 33 / Phillip Neal Tippin
The premature verse
Of our hearts part grown.
The snow blew as smoke
Off the blackened hedgerows
Around the festal table sits
An every eye for an every you
And the wealth of joy that lies between—
Savorings of the richest gift,
The means of being together!
Upon my word
They’re nothing but stick figures!
Drawn by a moored
Foreshortened hand
Marking in the mead
The gated field to cross
And, in its crossing, wheat
To pick and crush and eat
And with that sustained.
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